THE  FLOWER  OF  OLD  JAPAN 

THE  PROGRESS  OF  LOVE 

THE  FOREST  OF  WILD  THYME 

DRAKE 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 


COLLECTED    POEMS 

VOLUME    I. 


tUs^U  9i^ 


COLLECTED    POEMS 


BY 


ALFRED    NOYES 


VOLUME    ONE 


NEW  YORK 

FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT,    1913,   BY 
FBEDERICK   A.   STOKES   COMPANY 


copyright,    1906,    1907,    1908,   by 
the  macmillan  company 

COPYRIGHT,    1909,    1910,    1911,   BY 
FREDERICK   A.   STOKES    COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT,    1906,    1909,   BY 
ALFRED   NOYES 


All  rights  reserved,  including  that  of  translation  into  foreign  languages, 
including  the  Scandinavian.     All  dramatic  and  acting  rights,  both  pro- 
fessional  and  amateur,  are  reserved.     Application  for  the   right   of  per- 
forming should  be  made  to  the  publishers 


SEVENTH     PRINTING 


October,  1918 


CONTENTS 

Page 

The  Loom  of  Years 1 

In  the  Heart  of  the  Woods 2 

Art 5 

Triolet 8 

A  Triple  Ballad  of  Old  Japan 8 

The  Symbolist 10 

Haunted  in  Old  Japan 11 

Necromancy 12 

The  Mystic 15 

The  Flower  of  Old  Japan 17 

Apes  and  Ivory .  48 

A  Song  of  Sherwood 49 

The  World's  May-Queen 50 

Pirates 53 

A  Song  of  England 55 

The  Old  Sceptic 57 

The  Death  of  Chopin 59 

Song 62 

Butterflies 62 

Song  of  the  Wooden-Legged  Fiddler 66 

The  Fisher-Girl 67 

A  Song  of  Two  Burdens 71 

Earth-Bound 72 

Art,  The  Herald 74 

The  Optimist 74 

A  Post-Impression 76 

The  Barrel-Organ SO 

The  Litany  of  War S5 

The  Origin  of  Life 86 

The  Last  Battle 88 

The  Paradox 89 

v 


. 


vi  CONTENTS 

Page 

The  Progress  of  Love 94 

The  Forest  of  Wild  Thyme 123 

Forty  Singing  Seamen 171 

The  Empire  Builders 175 

Nelson's  Year 177 

In  Time  of  War 180 

Ode  for  the  Seventieth  Birthday  of  Swinburne  .     .   186 

In  Cloak  of  Grey 188 

A  Ride  for  the  Queen 189 

Song 191 

The  Highwayman 192 

The  Haunted  Palace 196 

The  Sculptor 200 

Summer 201 

At  Dawn 204 

The  Swimmer's  Race 206 

The  Venus  of  Milo 208 

The  Net  of  Vulcan 209 

Niobe 209 

Orpheus  and  Eurydice 211 

From  the  Shore 220 

The  Return 222 

Remembrance 223 

A  Prayer 224 

Love's  Ghost 224 

On  a  Railway  Platform 225 

Oxford  Revisited 226 

The  Three  Ships 228 

Slumber-Songs  of  the  Madonna 230 

Enceladus 235 

In  the  Cool  of  the  Evening 241 

A  Roundhead's  Rallying  Song 242 

VlCISTI,  GALIL2EE 243 

Drake 246 


COLLECTED  POEMS 


EARLY  POEMS 

DEDICATED   TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  JAMES  PAYS 


THE  LOOM  OF  YEARS 

In  the  light  of  the  silent  stars  that  shine  on  the  struggling  sea, 
In  the  weary  cry  of  the  wind  and  the  whisper  of  flower  and 

tree, 
Under  the  breath  of  laughter,  deep  in  the  tide  of  tears, 
I  hear  the  Loom  of  the  Weaver  that  weaves  the  Web  of  Years. 

The  leaves  of  the  winter  wither  and  sink  in  the  forest  mould 
To  colour  the  flowers  of  April  with  purple  and  white  and  gold : 
Light  and  scent  and  music  die  and  are  born  again 
In  the  heart  of  a  grey-haired  woman  who  wakes  in  a  world 
of  pain. 

The  hound,  the  fawn  and  the  hawk,  and  the  doves  that  croon 

and  coo, 
We  are  all  one  woof  of  the  weaving  and  the  one  warp  threads 

us  through, 
One  flying  cloud  on  the  shuttle  that  carries  our  hopes  and  fears 
As  it  goes  thro'  the  Loom  of  the  Weaver  that  weaves  the  Web 

of  Years. 

The  crosiers  of  the  fern,  and  the  crown,  the  crown  of  the 

rose, 
Pass  with  our  hearts  to  the  Silence  where  the  wings  of  music 

close, 
Pass  and  pass  to  the  Timeless  that  never  a  moment  mars, 
Pass  and  pass  to  the  Darkness  that  made  the  suns  and  stars. 

1 


2        IN  THE  HEART  OF  THE  WOODS 

Has  the  soul  gone  out  in  the  Darkness?    Is  the  dust  sealed 

from  sight? 
Ah,  hush,  for  the  woof  of  the  ages  returns  thro'  the  warp  of 

the  night ! 
Never  that  shuttle  loses  one  thread  of  our  hopes  and  fears, 
As  it  comes  thro'  the  Loom  of  the  Weaver  that  weaves    the 

Web  of  Years. 

0,  woven  in  one  wide  Loom  thro'  the  throbbing  weft  of  the 

whole, 
One  in  spirit  and  flesh,  one  in  body  and  soul, 
The  leaf  on  the  winds  of  autumn,  the  bird  in  its  hour  to 

die, 
The  heart  in  its  muffled  anguish,  the  sea  in  its  mournful  cry, 

One  with  the  flower  of  a  day,  one  with  the  withered  moon, 
One  with  the  granite  mountains  that  melt  into  the  noon, 
One  with  the  dream  that  triumphs  beyond  the  light  of  the 

spheres, 
We  come  from  the  Loom  of  the  Weaver  that  weaves  the 

Web  of  Years. 


IN  THE  HEART  OF  THE  WOODS 


The  Heart  of  the  woods,  I  hear  it,  beating,  beating  afar, 

In  the  glamour  and  gloom  of  the  night,  in  the  light  of  the 
rosy  star, 

In  the  cold  sweet  voice  of  the  bird,  in  the  throb  of  the  flower- 
soft  sea!   .    .    . 

For  the  Pleart  of  the  woods  is  the  Heart  of  the  world  and  the 
Heart  of  Eternit3r, 

Ay,  and  the  burning  passionate  Heart  of  the  heart  in  you 
and  me. 

Love  of  my  heart,  love  of  the  world,  linking  the  golden  moon 
With  the  flowery  moths  that  flutter  thro'  the  scented  leaves  of 
June, 


IN  THE  HEART  OF.  THE  WOODS  3 

And  the  mind  of  man  with  beauty ,  and  youth  with  the  dream- 
ing night 

Of  stars  and  flowers  and  waters  and  breasts  of  glimmering 
white, 

And  streaming  hair  of  fragrant  dusk  and  flying  limbs  of  lovely 
light; 

Life  of  me,  life  of  me,  shining  in  sun  and  cloud  and  wind, 

In  the  dark  eyes  of  the  fawn  and  the  eyes  of  the  hound  behind, 

In  the  leaves  that  lie  in  the  seed  unsown,  and  the  dream 

of  the  babe  unborn, 
O,  flaming  tides  of  my  blood,  as  you  flow  thro'  flower  and 

root  and  thorn, 
I  feel  you  burning  the  boughs  of  night  to  kindle  the  fires  of 

morn. 

Soul  of  me,  soul  of  me,  yearning  wherever  a  lavrock  sings, 
Or  the  crimson  gloom  is  winnowed  by  the  whirr  of  wood- 
doves'  wings, 
Or  the  spray  of  the  foam-bow  rustles  in  the  white  dawn  of 

the  moon, 
And  mournful  billows  moan  aloud,   Come  soon,   soon,  soon, 
Come  soon,  0  Death  with  the  Heart  of  love  and  the  secret  of  the 
rune. 

Heart  of  me,  heart  of  me,  heart  of  me,  beating,  beating  afar, 
In  the  green  gloom  of  the  night,  in  the  light  of  the  rosy  star, 
In  the  cold  sweet  voice  of  the  bird,  in  the  throb  of  the  flower- 
soft  sea !  .    .    . 
0,  the  Heart  of  the  woods  is  the  Heart  of  the  world  and  the 

Heart  of  Eternity, 
Ay,  and  the  burning  passionate  Heart  of  the  heart  in  you  and 
me. 

II 

O,  Death  will  never  find  us  in  the  heart  of  the  wood, 

The  song  is  in  my  blood,  night  and  day: 
We  will  pluck  a  scented  petal  from  the  Rose  upon  the  Rood 

Where  Love  lies  bleeding  on  the  way. 


4        IN  THE  HEART  OF  THE  WOODS 

We  will  listen  to  the  linnet  and  watch  the  waters  leap, 

When  the  clouds  go  dreaming  by, 
And  under  the  wild  roses  and  the  stars  we  will  sleep, 

And  wander  on  together,  you  and  I. 


We  shall  understand  the  mystery  that  none  has  understood, 

We  shall  know  why  the  leafy  gloom  is  green. 
O,  Death  will  never  find  us  in  the  heart  of  the  wood 

When  we  see  what  the  stars  have  seen ! 
We  have  heard  the  hidden  song  of  the  soft  dews  falling 

At  the  end  of  the  last  dark  sky, 
Where  all  the  sorrows  of  the  world  are  calling, 

We  must  wander  on  together,  you  and  I. 


They  are  calling,  calling,  Away,  come  away! 

And  we  know  not  whence  they  call; 
For  the  song  is  in  our  hearts,  we  hear  it  night  and  day, 

As  the  deep  tides  rise  and  fall: 
0,  Death  will  never  find  us  in  the  heart  of  the  wood, 

While  the  hours  and  the  years  roll  by! 
We  have  heard  it,  we  have  heard  it,  but  we  have  not  un- 
derstood, 

We  must  wander  on  together,  you  and  I. 


The  wind  may  beat  upon  us,  the  rain  may  blind  our  eyes, 

The  leaves  may  fall  beneath  the  winter's  wing; 
But  we  shall  hear  the  music  of  the  dream  that  never  dies, 

And  we  shall  know  the  secret  of  the  Spring. 
We  shall  know  how  all  the  blossoms  of  evil  and  of  good 

Are  mingled  in  the  meadows  of  the  sky; 
And  then — if  Death  can  find  us  in  the  heart  of  the  wood — 

We  shall  wander  on  together,  you  and  I. 


ART 

ART 

(imitated  from  de  banville  and  gautier) 


Yes!  Beauty  still  rebels! 

Our  dreams  like  clouds  disperse: 

She  dwells 
In  agate,  marble,  verse. 

No  false  constraint  be  thine! 
But,  for  right  walking,  choose 

The  fine, 
The  strict  cothurnus,  Muse. 

Vainly  ye  seek  to  escape 

The  toil !    The  yielding  phrase 

Ye  shape 
Is  clay,  not  chrysoprase. 

And  all  in  vain  ye  scorn 
That  seeming  ease  which  ne'er 

Was  born 
Of  aught  but  love  and  care. 

Take  up  the  sculptor's  tool ! 
Recall  the  gods  that  die 

To  rule 
In  Parian  o'er  the  sky. 

For  Beauty  still  rebels ! 

Our  dreams  like  clouds  disperse: 

She  dwells 
In  agate,  marble,  verse. 

II 

When  Beauty  from  the  sea, 
With  breasts  of  whiter  rose 

Than  we 
Behold  on  earth,  arose. 


ART 

Naked  thro'  Time  returned 
The  Bliss  of  Heaven  that  day, 

And  burned 
The  dross  of  earth  away. 

Kings  at  her  splendour  quailed. 
For  all  his  triple  steel 

She  haled 
War  at  her  chariot-wheel. 

The  rose  and  lily  bowed 
To  cast,  of  odour  sweet 

A  cloud 
Before  her  wandering  feet. 

And  from  her  radiant  eyes 
There  shone  on  soul  and  sense 

The  skies' 
Divine  indifference. 

0,  mortal  memory  fond! 
Slowly  she  passed  away 

Beyond 
The  curling  clouds  of  day. 

Return,  we  cry,  return, 
Till  in  the  sadder  light 

We  learn 
That  she  was  infinite. 

The  Dream  that  from  the  sea 
With  breasts  of  whiter  rose 

Than  we 
Behold  on  earth,  arose. 

Ill 

Take  up  the  sculptor's  tool ! 
Recall  the  dreams  that  die 

To  rule 
In  Parian  o'er  the  sky; 


ART 

And  kings  that  not  endure 
In  bronze  to  re-ascend 

Secure 
Until  the  world  shall  end. 

Poet,  let  passion  sleep 
Till  with  the  cosmic  rhyme 

You  keep 
Eternal  tone  and  time, 

By  rule  of  hour  and  flower, 
By  strength  of  stern  restraint 

And  power 
To  fail  and  not  to  faint. 

The  task  is  hard  to  learn 
While  all  the  songs  of  Spring 

Return 
Along  the  blood  and  sing. 

Yet  hear — from  her  deep  skies, 
How  Art,  for  all  your  pain, 

Still  cries 
Ye  must  be  born  again! 

Reject  the  wreath  of  rose, 
Take  up  the  crown  of  thorn 

That  shows 
To-night  a  child  is  born. 

The  far  immortal  face 
In  chosen  onyx  fine 

Enchase, 
Delicate  line  by  line. 

Strive  with  Carrara,  fight 
With  Parian,  till  there  steal 

To  light 
Apollo's  pure  profile. 


A.  TRIPLE  BALLAD  OF  OLD  JAPAN 

Set  the  great  lucid  form 
Free  from  its  marble  tomb 

To  storm 
The  heights  of  death  and  doom. 

Take  up  the  sculptor's  tool ! 
Recall  the  gods  that  die 

To  rule 
In  Parian  o'er  the  sky. 

TRIOLET 

Love,  awake!    Ah,  let  thine  eyes 

Open,  clouded  with  thy  dreams. 
Now  the  shy  sweet  rosy  skies, 

Love,  awake.     Ah,  let  thine  eyes 
Dawn  before  the  last  star  dies. 

O'er  thy  breast  the  rose-light  gleams: 
Love,  awake!    Ah,  let  thine  eyes 

Open,  clouded  with  thy  dreams. 

A  TRIPLE  BALLAD  OF  OLD  JAPAN 

In  old  Japan,  by  creek  and  bay, 

The  blue  plum-blossoms  blow, 
Where  birds  with  sea-blue  plumage  gay 

Thro'  sea-blue  branches  go: 
Dragons  are  coiling  down  below 

Like  dragons  on  a  fan; 
And  pig-tailed  sailors  lurching  slow 

Thro'  streets  of  old  Japan. 

There,  in  the  dim  blue  death  of  day 

Where  white  tea-roses  grow, 
Petals  and  scents  are  strewn  astray 

Till  night  be  sweet  enow, 
Then  lovers  wander  whispering  low 

As  lovers  only  can, 
Where  rosy  paper  lanterns  glow 

Thro'  streets  of  old  Japan. 


A  TRIPLE  BALLAD  OF  OLD  JAPAN 

From  Wonderland  to  Yea-or-Nay 

The  junks  of  Weal-and-Woe 
Dream  on  the  purple  water-way 

Nor  ever  meet  a  foe; 
Though  still,  with  stiff  mustachio 

And  crooked  ataghan, 
Their  pirates  guard  with  pomp  and  show 

The  ships  of  old  Japan. 

That  land  is  very  far  away, 

We  lost  it  long  ago ! 
No  fairies  ride  the  cherry  spray, 

No  witches  mop  and  mow, 
The  violet  wells  have  ceased  to  flow; 

And  0,  how  faint  and  wan 
The  dawn  on  Fusiyama's  snow, 

The  peak  of  old  Japan. 

Half  smilingly  our  hearts  delay, 

Half  mournfully  forego 
The  blue  fantastic  twisted  day 

When  faithful  Konojo, 
For  small  white  Lily  Hasu-ko 

Knelt  in  the  Butsudan, 
And  her  tomb  opened  to  bestrow 

Lilies  thro'  old  Japan. 

There  was  a  game  they  used  to  play 

I'  the  San-ju-san-jen  Do, 
They  filled  a  little  lacquer  tray 

With  powders  in  a  row, 
Dry  dust  of  flowers  from  Tashiro 

To  Mount  Daimugenzan, 
Dry  little  heaps  of  dust,  but  0 

They  breathed  of  old  Japan. 

Then  knights  in  blue  and  gold  array 
Would  on  their  thumbs  bestow 

A  pinch  from  every  heap  and  say, 
With  many  a  hum  and  ho, 


10  THE  SYMBOLIST 

What  blossoms,  nodding  to  and  fro 

For  joy  of  maid  or  man, 
Conceived  the  scents  that  puzzled  so 

The  brains  of  old  Japan. 

The  hundred  ghosts  have  ceased  to  affray 

The  dust  of  Kyot6, 
Ah  yet,  what  phantom  blooms  a-sway 

Murmur,  a-loft,  a-low, 
In  dells  no  scythe  of  death  can  mow, 

No  power  of  reason  scan, 
0,  what  Samurai  singers  know 

The  Flower  of  old  Japan? 

Dry  dust  of  blossoms,  dim  and  gray, 

Lost  on  the  wind?     Ah,  no, 
Hark,  from  yon  clump  of  English  may, 

A  cherub's  mocking  crow, 
A  sudden  twang,  a  sweet,  swift  throe, 

As  Daisy  trips  by  Dan, 
And  careless  Cupid  drops  his  bow 

And  laughs — from  old  Japan. 

There,  in  the  dim  blue  death  of  day 

Where  white  tea-roses  grow, 
Petals  and  scents  are  strewn  astray 

Till  night  be  sweet  enow, 
Then  lovers  wander,  whispering  low, 

As  lovers  only  can, 
Where  rosy  paper  lanterns  glow 

Thro'  streets  of  old  Japan. 


THE  SYMBOLIST 

Help  me  to  seek  that  unknown  land? 

I  kneel  before  the  shrine. 
Help  me  to  feel  the  hidden  hand 

That  ever  holdeth  mine. 


HAUNTED  IN  OLD  JAPAN  11 

I  kneel  before  the  Word,  I  kneel 

Before  the  Cross  of  flame 
I  cry,  as  thro'  the  gloom  I  steal, 

The  glory  of  the  Name. 

Help  me  to  mourn,  and  I  shall  love; 

What  grief  is  like  to  mine? 
Crown  me  with  thorn,  the  stars  above 

Shall  in  the  circlet  shine ! 

The  Temple  opens  wide:  none  sees 

The  love,  the  dream,  the  light ! 
0,  blind  and  finite,  are  not  these 

Blinding  and  infinite? 

The  veil,  the  veil  is  rent:  the  skies 

Are  white  with  wings  of  fire, 
Where  victim  souls  triumphant  rise 

In  torment  of  desire. 

Help  me  to  seek:  I  would  not  find, 

For  when  I  find  I  know 
I  shall  have  clasped  the  hollow  wind 

And  built  a  house  of  snow. 

HAUNTED  IN  OLD  JAPAN 

Music  of  the  star-shine  shimmering  o'er  the  sea 
Mirror  me  no  longer  in  the  dusk  of  memory : 
Dim  and  white  the  rose-leaves  drift  along  the  shore. 
Wind  among  the  roses,  blow  no  more ! 

All  along  the  purple  creek,  lit  with  silver  foam, 
Silent,  silent  voices,  cry  no  more  of  home! 
Soft  beyond  the  cherry-trees,  o'er  the  dim  lagoon, 
Dawns  the  crimson  lantern  of  the  large  low  moon. 

We  that  loved  in  April,  we  that  turned  away 
Laughing  ere  the  wood-dove  crooned  across  the  May, 
Watch  the  withered  rose-leaves  drift  along  the  shore. 
Wind  among  the  roses,  blow  no  more' 


12  NECROMANCY 

We  the  Sons  of  Reason,  we  that  chose  to  bride 
Knowledge,  and  rejected  the  Dream  that  we  denied, 
We  that  chose  the  Wisdom  that  triumphs  for  an  hour, 
We  that  let  the  young  love  perish  like  a  flower.   .    .    . 

We  that  hurt  the  kind  heart,  we  that  went  astray, 
We  that  in  the  darkness  idly  dreamed  of  day .... 
.    .    .    Ah!    The  dreary  rose-leaves  drift  along  the  shore. 
Wind  among  the  roses,  blow  no  more1 

Lonely  starry  faces,  wonderful  and  white, 

Yearning  with  a  cry  across  the  dim  sweet  night, 

All  our  dreams  are  blown  a-drift  as  flowers  before  a  fan, 

All  our  hearts  are  haunted  in  the  heart  of  old  Japan. 

Haunted,  haunted,  haunted — we  that  mocked  and  sinned 
Hear  the  vanished  voices  wailing  down  the  wind, 
Watch  the  ruined  rose-leaves  drift  along  the  shore. 
Wind  among  the  roses,  blow  no  more ! 

All  along  the  purple  creek,  lit  with  silver  foam, 
Sobbing,  sobbing  voices,  cry  no  more  of  home! 
Soft  beyond  the  cherry-trees,  o'er  the  dim  lagoon, 
Dawns  the  crimson  lantern  of  the  large  low  moon. 


NECROMANCY 

(after  the  prose  of  Baudelaire) 

This  necromantic  palace,  dim  and  rich, 

Dim  as  a  dream,  rich  as  a  reverie, 
I  knew  it  all  of  old,  surely  I  knew 
This  floating  twilight  tinged  with  rose  and  blue, 
This  moon-soft  carven  niche 

Whence  the  calm  marble,  wan  as  memory, 
Slopes  to  the  wine-brimmed  bath  of  cold  dark  fire 
Perfumed  with  old  regret  and  dead  desire. 


NECROMANCY  13 

There  the  soul,  slumbering  in  the  purple  waves 
Of  indolence,  dreams  of  the  phantom  years, 

Dreams  of  the  wild  sweet  flower  of  red  young  lips 

Meeting  and  murmuring  in  the  dark  eclipse 
Of  joy,  where  pain  still  craves 
One  tear  of  love  to  mingle  with  their  tears, 

One  passionate  welcome  ere  the  wild  farewell, 

One  flash  of  heaven  across  the  fires  of  hell. 


Queen  of  my  dreams,  queen  of  my  pitiless  dreams, 

Dim  idol,  moulded  of  the  wild  white  rose, 
Coiled  like  a  panther  in  that  silken  gloom 
Of  scented  cushions,  where  the  rich  hushed  room 

Breaks  into  soft  warm  gleams, 
As  from  her  slumbrous  clouds  Queen  Venus  glows, 
Slowly  thine  arms  up-lift  to  me,  thine  eyes 
Meet  mine,  without  communion  or  surmise. 


Here,  at  thy  feet,  I  watched,  I  watched  all  day 

Night  floating  in  thine  eyes,  then  with  my  hands 
Covered  my  face  from  that  dumb  cry  of  pain: 
And  when  at  last  I  dared  to  look  again 

My  heart  was  far  away, 
Wrapt  in  the  fragrant  gloom  of  Eastern  lands, 
Under  the  flower-white  stars  of  tropic  skies 
Where  soft  black  floating  flowers  turned  to  .  .  .  thine 
eyes. 


I  breathe,  I  breathe  the  perfume  of  thine  hair: 
Bury  in  thy  deep  hair  my  fevered  face, 

Till  as  to  men  athirst  in  desert  dreams 

The  savour  and  colour  and  sound  of  cool  dark  streams 
Float  round  me  everywhere, 
And  memories  float  from  some  forgotten  place, 

Fulfilling  hopeless  eyes  with  hopeless  tears 

And  fleeting  light  of  unforgotten  years. 


14  NECROMANCY 

Dim  clouds  of  music  in  the  dim  rich  hours 

Float  to  me  thro'  the  twilight  of  thine  hair, 
And  sails  like  blossoms  float  o'er  purple  seas, 
And  under  dark  green  skies  the  soft  warm  breeze 
Washes  dark  fruit,  dark  flowers, 
Dark  tropic  maidens  in  some  island  lair 
Couched  on  the  warm  sand  nigh  the  creaming  foam 
To  dream  and  sing  their  tawny  lovers  home. 


Lost  in  the  magic  ocean  of  thine  hair 
I  find  the  haven  of  the  heart  of  song: 

There  tired  ships  rest  against  the  pale  red  sky! 

And  yet  again  there  comes  a  thin  sad  cry 
And  all  the  shining  air 
Fades,  where  the  tall  dark  singing  seamen  throng 

From  many  generations,  many  climes, 

Fades,  fades,  as  it  has  faded  many  times. 


I  hear  the  sweet  cool  whisper  of  the  waves ! 

Drowned  in  the  slumbrous  billows  of  thine  hair, 
I  dream  as  one  that  sinks  thro'  passionate  hours 
In  a  strange  ship's  wild  fraughtage  of  dark  flowers 
Culled  for  pale  poets'  graves; 

And  opiate  odours  load  the  empurpled  air 
That  flows  and  droops,  a  dark  resplendent  pall 
Under  the  floating  wreaths  funereal. 


Under  the  heavy  midnight  of  thine  hair 
An  altar  flames  with  spices  of  the  south 

Burning  my  flesh  and  spirit  in  the  flame; 

Till,  looking  tow'rds  the  land  from  whence  I  came 
I  find  no  comfort  there, 
And  all  the  darkness  to  my  thirsty  mouth 

Is  fire,  but  always  and  in  every  place 

Blossoms  the  secret  wonder  of  thy  face. 


THE  MYSTIC  15 

The  walls,  the  very  walls  are  woven  of  dreams, 

All  undefined  by  blasphemies  of  art ! 
Here,  pure  from  finite  hues  the  very  night 
Conceives  the  mystic  harmonies  of  light, 
Delicious  glooms  and  gleams; 

And  sorrow  falls  in  rose-leaves  on  the  heart, 
And  pain  that  yearns  upon  the  passing  hour 
Is  but  a  perfume  haunting  a  dead  flower. 

Hark,  as  a  hammer  on  a  coffin  falls 

A  knock  upon  the  door !    The  colours  wane, 
The  dreams  vanish !    And  leave  that  foul  white  scar, 
Tattoo'd  with  dreadful  marks,  the  old  calendar 
Blotching  the  blistered  walls ! 
The  winter  whistles  thro'  a  shivered  pane, 
And  scatters  on  the  bare  boards  at  my  feet 
These  poor  soiled  manuscripts,  torn,  incomplete.   .    .  ' 

The  scent  of  opium  floats  about  my  breath; 

But  Time  resumes  his  dark  and  hideous  reign; 
And,  with  him,  hideous  memories  troop,  I  know. 
Hark,  how  the  battered  clock  ticks,  to  and  fro, — 
Life,  Death — Life,  Death — Life,  Death — 

O  fool  to  cry !     0  slave  to  bow  to  pain,. 
Coward  to  live  thus  tortured  with  desire 
By  demon  nerves  in  hells  of  sensual  fire. 

THE  MYSTIC 

With  wounds  out-reddening  every  moon-washed  rose 
King  Love  went  thro'  earth's  garden-close! 

From  that  first  gate  of  birth  in  the  golden  gloom, 
I  traced  Him.     Thorns  had  frayed  His  garment's  hem, 
Ay,  and  His  flesh!     I  marked,  I  followed  them 

Down  to  that  threshold  of — the  tomb? 

And  there  Love  vanished,  yet  I  entered !    Night 
And  Doubt  mocked  at  the  dwindling  light: 

Strange  claw-like  hands  flung  me  their  shadowy  hate. 
I  clomb  the  dreadful  stairways  of  desire 
Between  a  thousand  eyes  and  wings  of  fire 

And  knocked  upon  the  second  Gate. 


1G  THE  MYSTIC 

The  second  Gate!    When,  like  a  warrior  helmed, 
In  battle  on  battle  overwhelmed, 

My  soul  lay  stabbed  by  all  the  swords  of  sense, 
Blinded  and  stunned  by  stars  and  flowers  and  trees, 
Did  I  not  struggle  to  my  bended  knees 

And  wrestle  with  Omnipotence? 

Did  earth  not  flee  before  me,  when  the  breath 
Of  worship  smote  her  with  strange  death, 

Withered  her  gilded  garment,  broke  her  sword, 
Shattered  her  graven  images  and  smote 
All  her  light  sorrows  thro'  the  breast  and  throat 

Whose  death-cry  crowned  me  God  and  Lord? 

Yea,  God  and  Lord!     Had  tears  not  purged  my  sight? 
I  saw  the  myriad  gates  of  Light 

Opening  and  shutting  in  each  way-side  flower, 
And  like  a  warder  in  the  gleam  of  each, 
Death,  whispering  in  some  strange  eternal  speech 

To  every  passing  hour. 

The  second  Gate?     Was  I  not  born  to  pass 
A  million?     Though  the  skies  be  brass 

And  the  earth  iron,  shall  I  not  win  thro'  all? 
Shall  I  who  made  the  infinite  heavens  my  mark 
Shrink  from  this  first  wild  horror  of  the  dark, 

These  formless  gulfs,  these  glooms  that  crawl? 

Never  was  mine  that  easy  faithless  hope 
Which  makes  all  life  one  flowery  slope 

To  heaven !     Mine  be  the  vast  assaults  of  doom, 
Trumpets,  defeats,  red  anguish,  age-long  strife, 
Ten  million  deaths,  ten  million  gates  to  life, 

The  insurgent  heart  that  bursts  the  tomb. 

Vain,  vain,  unutterably  vain  are  all 
The  sights  and  sounds  that  sink  and  fall, 

The  words  and  symbols  of  this  fleeting  breath: 
Shall  I  not  drown  the  finite-  in  the  Whole, 
Cast  off  this  body  and  complete  my  soul 

Thro'  deaths  beyond  this  gate  of  death? 


THE  FLOWER  OF  OLD  JAPAN  17 

It  will  not  open !    Through  the  bars  I  see 

The  glory  and  the  mystery- 
Wind  upward  ever !    The  earth-dawn  breaks !     I  bleed 

With  beating  here  for  entrance.     Hark,  0  hark, 

Love,  Love,  return  and  give  me  the  great  Dark, 
Which  is  the  Light  of  Life  indeed. 


THE  FLOWER  OF   OLD  JAPAN 

DEDICATED   TO 
CAROL,   A  LITTLE   MAIDEN   OF   MYAKO. 


PERSONS  OF  THE  TALE 


Ourselves 
The  Tall  Thin  Man 
The  Dwarf  behind  the  Twisted 
Pear-Tree 


Creeping  Sin 

The  Mad  Mooxshee 

The  Nameless  One 


Pirates,  Mandarins,  Bonzes,  Priests,  Jugglers,  Merchants, 
Ghastroi,  Weirdrians,  etc. 

PRELUDE 

You  that  have  known  the  wonder  zone 

Of  islands  far  away; 
You  that  have  heard  the  dinky  bird 
And  roamed  in  rich  Cathay; 
You  that  have  sailed  o'er  unknown  seas 
To  woods  of  Amfalula  trees 
Where  craggy  dragons  play: 
Oh,  girl  or  woman,  boy  or  man, 
You've  plucked  the  Flower  of  Old  Japan! 

Do  you  remember  the  blue  stream; 
The  bridge  of  pale  bamboo; 
The  path  that  seemed  a  twisted  dream 
Where  everything  came  true; 
The  purple  cherry-trees;  the  house 
With  jutting  eaves  below  the  boughs; 
The  mandarins  in  blue, 
With  tiny,  tapping,  tilted  toes, 
And  curious  curved  mustachios? 
2 


18  THE  FLOWER  OF  OLD  JAPAN 

The  road  to  Old  Japan!  you  cry, 

And  is  it  far  or  near? 
Some  never  find  it  till  they  die; 

Some  find  it  everywhere; 
The  road  where  restful  Time  forgets 
His  weary  thoughts  and  wild  regrets 

And  calls  the  golden  year 
Back  in  a  fairy  dream  to  smile 
On  young  and  old  a  little  while. 

Some  seek  it  with  a  blazing  sword, 

And  some  with  old  blue  plates; 
Some  with  a  miser's  golden  hoard; 

Some  with  a  book  of  dates; 
Some  with  a  box  of  paints;  a  few 
Whose  loads  of  truth  would  ne'er  pass  through 

The  first,  white,  fairy  gates; 
And,  oh,  how  shocked  they  are  to  find 
That  truths  are  false  when  left  behind! 

Do  you  remember  all  the  tales 

That  Tusitala  told, 
When  first  we  plunged  thro'  purple  vales 

In  quest  of  buried  gold? 
Do  you  remember  how  he  said 
That  if  we  fell  and  hurt  our  head 

Our  hearts  must  still  be  bold, 
And  we  must  never  mind  the  pain 
But  rise  up  and  go  on  again? 

Do  you  remember?     Yes;  I  know 

You  must  remember  still : 
He  left  us,  not  so  long  ago, 

Carolling  with  a  will, 
Because  he  knew  that  he  should  lie 
Under  the  comfortable  sky 

Upon  a  lonely  hill, 
In  Old  Japan,  when  day  was  done; 
"  Dear  Robert  Louis  Stevenson." 


THE  FLOWER  OF  OLD  JAPAN  19 

And  there  he  knew  that  he  should  find 

The  hills  that  haunt  us  now; 
The  whaups  that  cried  upon  the  wind 

His  heart  remembered  how; 
And  friends  he  loved  and  left,  to  roam 
Far  from  the  pleasant  hearth  of  home, 

Should  touch  his  dreaming  brow; 
Where  fishes  fly  and  birds  have  fins, 
And  children  teach  the  mandarins. 

Ah,  let  us  follow,  follow  far 

Beyond  the  purple  seas; 
Beyond  the  rosy  foaming  bar, 

The  coral  reef,  the  trees, 
The  land  of  parrots,  and  the  wild 
That  rolls  before  the  fearless  child 

Its  ancient  mysteries: 
Onward  and  onward,  if  we  can, 
To  Old  Japan — to  Old  Japan. 

PART  I 
EMBARKATION 

When  the  firelight,  red  and  clear, 

Flutters  in  the  black  wet  pane, 
It  is  very  good  to  hear 

Howling  winds  and  trotting  rain: 
It  is  very  good  indeed, 

When  the  nights  are  dark  and  cold, 
Near  the  friendly  hearth  to  read 

Tales  of  ghosts  and  buried  gold. 

So  with  cozy  toes  and  hands 

We  were  dreaming,  just  like  you; 
Till  we  thought  of  palmy  lands 

Coloured  like  a  cockatoo; 
All  in  drowsy  nursery  nooks 

Near  the  clutching  fire  we  sat, 
Searching  quaint  old  story-books 

Piled  upon  the  furry  mat. 


20  THE  FLOWER  OF  OLD  JAPAN 

Something  haunted  us  that  night 

Like  a  half -remembered  name; 
Worn  old  pages  in  that  light 

Seemed  the  same,  yet  not  the  same: 
Curling  in  the  pleasant  heat 

Smoothly  as  a  shell-shaped  fan, 
0,  they  breathed  and  smelt  so  sweet 

When  we  turned  to  Old  Japan ! 

Suddenly  we  thought  we  heard 

Someone  tapping  on  the  wall, 
Tapping,  tapping  like  a  bird. 

Then  a  panel  seemed  to  fall 
Quietly;  and  a  tall  thin  man 

Stepped  into  the  glimmering  room, 
And  he  held  a  little  fan, 

And  he  waved  it  in  the  gloom. 

Curious  red,  and  golds,  and  greens 
Danced  before  our  startled  eyes, 

Birds  from  painted  Indian  screens, 
Beads,  and  shells,  and  dragon-flies; 

Wings,  and  flowers,  and  scent,  and  flame, 
Fans  and  fish  and  heliotrope; 

Till  the  magic  air  became 
Like  a  dream  kaleidoscope. 

Then  he  told  us  of  a  land 

Far  across  a  fairy  sea; 
And  he  waved  his  thin  white  hand 

Like  a  flower,  melodiously; 
While  a  red  and  blue  macaw 

Perched  upon  his  pointed  head, 
And  as  in  a  dream,  we  saw 

All  the  curious  things  he  said. 

Tucked  in  tiny  palanquins, 
Magically  swinging  there, 

Flowery-kirtled  mandarins 

Floated  through  the  scented  air; 


THE  FLOWER  OF  OLD  JAPAN  21 

Wandering  dogs  and  prowling  cats 

Grinned  at  fish  in  painted  lakes; 
Cross-legged  conjurers  on  mats 

Fluted  low  to  listening  snakes. 

Fat  black  bonzes  on  the  shore 

Watched  where  singing,  faint  and  far, 
Boys  in  long  blue  garments  bore 

Roses  in  a  golden  jar. 
While  at  carven  dragon  ships 

Floating  o'er  that  silent  sea, 
Squat-limbed  gods  with  dreadful  lips 

Leered  and  smiled  mysteriously. 

Like  an  idol,  shrined  alone, 

Watched  by  secret  oval  eyes, 
"Where  the  ruby  wishing-stone 

Smouldering  in  the  darkness  lies, 
Anyone  that  wanted  things 

Touched  the  jewel  and  they  came; 
We  were  wealthier  than  kings 

Could  we  only  do  the  same. 

Yes;  we  knew  a  hundred  ways 

We  might  use  it  if  we  could; 
To  be  happy  all  our  days 

As  an  Indian  in  a  wood; 
No  more  daily  lesson  task, 

No  more  sorrow,  no  more  care; 
So  we  thought  that  we  would  ask 

If  he'd  kindly  lead  us  there. 

Ah,  but  then  he  waved  his  fan, 

Laughed  and  vanished  through  the  wall; 
Yet  a?  in  a  dream,  we  ran 

Tumbling  after,  one  and  all; 
Never  pausing  once  to  think, 

Panting  after  him  we  sped; 
Far  away  his  robe  of  pink 

Floated  backward  as  he  fled. 


22  THE  FLOWER  OF  OLD  JAPAN 

Down  a  secret  passage  deep, 

Under  roofs  of  spidery  stairs, 
Where  the  bat-winged  nightmares  creep, 

And  a  sheeted  phantom  glares 
Rushed  we;  ah,  how  strange  it  was 

Where  no  human  watcher  stood; 
Till  we  reached  a  gate  of  glass 

Opening  on  a  flowery  wood. 

Where  the  rose-pink  robe  had  flown, 

Borne  by  swifter  feet  than  ours, 
On  to  Wonder- Wander  town, 

Through  the  wood  of  monstrous  flowers; 
Mailed  in  monstrous  gold  and  blue 

Dragon-flies  like  peacocks  fled; 
Butterflies  like  carpets,  too, 

Softly  fluttered  overhead. 

Down  the  valley,  tip-a-toe, 

Where  the  broad-limbed  giants  lie 
Snoring,  as  when  long  ago 

Jack  on  a  bean-stalk  scaled  the  sky; 
On  to  Wonder- Wander  town 

Stole  we  past  old  dreams  again, 
Castles  long  since  battered  down, 

Dungeons  of  forgotten  pain. 

Noonday  brooded  on  the  wood, 

Evening  caught  us  ere  we  crept 
Where  a  twisted  pear-tree  stood, 

And  a  dwarf  behind  it  slept; 
Round  his  scraggy  throat  he  wore, 

Knotted  tight,  a  scarlet  scarf; 
Timidly  we  watched  him  snore, 

For  he  seemed  a  surly  dwarf. 

Yet,  he  looked  so  very  small, 
He  could  hardly  hurt  us  much; 

We  were  nearly  twice  as  tall, 
So  we  woke  him  with  a  touch 


THE  FLOWER  OF  OLD  JAPAN  23 

Gently,  and  in  tones  polite, 

Asked  him  to  direct  our  path; 
0,  his  wrinkled  eyes  grew  bright 

Green  with  ugly  gnomish  wrath. 

He  seemed  to  choke, 

And  gruffly  spoke, 
"You're  lost:  deny  it,  if  you  can! 

You  want  to  know 

The  way  to  go? 
There's  no  such  place  as  Old  Japan. 

"You  want  to  seek — 

No,  no,  don't  speak! 
You  mean  you  want  to  steal  a  fan. 

You  want  to  see 

The  fields  of  tea? 
They  don't  grow  tea  in  Old  Japan. 

"In  China,  well 

Perhaps  you'd  smell 
The  cherry  bloom :  that's  if  you  ran 

A  million  miles 

And  jumped  the  stiles, 
And  never  dreamed  of  Old  Japan. 

''What,  palanquins, 

And  mandarins? 
And,  what  d'you  say,  a  blue  divan? 

And  what?     Heelhee! 

You'll  never  see 
A  pig-tailed  head  in  Old  Japan. 

"You'd  take  away 

The  ruby,  hey? 
I  never  heard  of  such  a  plan! 

Upon  my  word 

It's  quite  absurd 
There's  not  a  gem  in  Old  Japan! 


24  THE  FLOWER  OF  OLD  JAPAN 

"Oh,  dear  me,  no! 
You'd  better  go 
Straight  home  again,  my  little  man: 
All,  well,  you'll  see 
But  don't  blame  me; 
I  don't  believe  in  Old  Japan." 

Then,  before  we  could  obey, 

O'er  our  startled  heads  he  cast, 
Spider-like,  a  webby  grey 

Net  that  held  us  prisoned  fast; 
How  we  screamed,  he  only  grinned, 

It  was  such  a  lonely  place; 
And  he  said  we  should  be  pinned 

Safely  in  his  beetle-case. 

Out  he  dragged  a  monstrous  box 

From  a  cave  behind  the  tree! 
It  had  four-and-twenty  locks, 

But  he  could  not  find  the  key, 
And  his  face  grew  very  pale 

When  a  sudden  voice  began 
Drawing  nearer  through  the  vale, 

Singing  songs  of  Old  Japan. 


SONG 

Satin  sails  in  a  crimson  dawn 

Over  the  silky  silver  sea; 
Purple  veils  of  the  dark  withdrawn; 

Heavens  of  pearl  and  porphyry; 
Purple  and  white  in  the  morning  light 

Over  the  water  the  town  we  knew, 
In  tiny  state,  like  a  willow-plate, 

Shone,  and  behind  it  the  hills  were  blue. 

There,  we  remembered,  the  shadows  pass 
All  day  long  like  dreams  in  the  night; 

There,  in  the  meadoivs  of  dim  blue  grass, 
Crimson  daisies  are  ringed  with  whiter 


THE  FLOWER  OF  OLD  JAPAN  25 

There  the  roses  flutter  their  petals, 
Over  the  meadows  they  take  their  flight, 

There  the  moth  that  sleepily  settles 

Turns  to  a  flower  in  the  warm  soft  light. 

There  when  the  sunset  colours  the  streets 

Everyone  buys  at  wonderful  stalls 
Toys  and  chocolates,  guns  and  sweets, 

Ivory  pistols,  and  Persian  shawls: 
Everyone's  pockets  are  crammed  with  gold; 

Nobody's  heart  is  worn  with  care, 
Nobody  ever  grows  tired  and  old, 

And  nobody  calls  you  "Baby"  there. 

There  with  a  hat  like  a  round  white  dish 

Upside  down  on  each  pig-tailed  head, 
Jugglers  offer  you  snakes  and  fish, 

Dreams  and  dragons  and  gingerbread; 
Beaxdiful  books  with  marvellous  pictures, 

Painted  pirates  and  streaming  gore, 
And  everyone  reads,  without  any  strictures, 

Tales  he  remembers  for  evermore. 

There  when  the  dim  blue  daylight  lingers 

Listening,  and  the  West  grows  holy, 
Singers  crouch  with  their  long  white  fingers 

Floating  over  the  zithern  slowly: 
Paper  lamps  with  a  peachy  bloom 

Burn  above  on  the  dim  blue  bough, 
While  the  zithems  gild  the  gloom 

With  curious  music!     I  hear  it  now! 

Now:  and  at  that  mighty  word 

Holding  out  his  magic  fan, 
Through  the  waving  flowers  appeared, 

Suddenly,  the  tall  thin  man: 
And  we  saw  the  crumpled  dwarf 

Trying  to  hide  behind  the  tree, 
But  his  knotted  scarlet  scarf 

Made  him  very  plain  to  see. 


26  THE  FLOWER  OF  OLD  JAPAN 

Like  a  soft  and  smoky  cloud 

Passed  the  webby  net  away; 
While  its  owner  squealing  loud 

Down  behind  the  pear-tree  lay; 
For  the  tall  thin  man  came  near, 

And  his  words  were  dark  and  gruff, 
And  he  swung  the  dwarf  in  the  air 

By  his  long  and  scraggy  scruff. 

There  he  kickled  whimpering. 

But  our  rescuer  touched  the  box, 
Open  with  a  sudden  spring 

Clashed  the  four-and-twenty  locks; 
Then  he  crammed  the  dwarf  inside, 

And  the  locks  all  clattered  tight: 
Four-and-twenty  times  he  tried 

Whether  they  were  fastened  right. 

Ah,  he  led  us  on  our  road, 

Showed  us  Wonder- Wander  town; 
Then  he  fled:  behind  him  flowed 

Once  again  the  rose-pink  gown: 
Down  the  long  deserted  street, 

All  the  windows  winked  like  eyes, 
And  our  little  trotting  feet 

Echoed  to  the  starry  skies. 

Low  and  long  for  evermore 

Where  the  Wonder- Wander  sea 
Whispers  to  the  wistful  shore 

Purple  songs  of  mysterj', 
Down  the  shadowy  quay  we  came — 

Though  it  hides  behind  the  hill 
You  will  find  it  just  the  same 

And  the  seamen  singing  still. 

There  we  chose  a  ship  of  pearl, 
And  her  milky  silken  sail 

Seemed  by  magic  to  unfurl, 
Puffed  before  a  fairy  gale; 


THE  FLOWER  OF  OLD  JAPAN  27 

Shimmering  o'er  the  purple  deep, 

Out  across  the  silvery  bar, 
Softly  as  the  wings  of  sleep 

Sailed  we  towards  the  morning  star. 

Over  us  the  skies  were  dark, 

Yet  we  never  needed  light; 
Softly  shone  our  tiny  bark 

Gliding  through  the  solemn  night; 
Softly  bright  our  moony  gleam, 

Glimmered  o'er  the  glistening  waves, 
Like  a  cold  sea-maiden's  dream 

Globed  in  twilit  ocean  caves. 

So  all  night  our  shallop  passed 

Many  a  haunt  of  old  desire, 
Blurs  of  savage  blossom  massed 

Red  above  a  pirate-fire; 
Huts  that  gloomed  and  glanced  among 

Fruitage  dipping  in  the  blue; 
Songs  the  sirens  never  sung, 

Shores  Ulysses  never  knew. 

All  our  fairy  rigging  shone 

Richly  as  a  rainbow  seen 
Where  the  moonlight  floats  upon 

Gossamers  of  gold  and  green: 
All  the  tiny  spars  were  bright; 

Beaten  gold  the  bowsprit  was; 
But  our  pilot  was  the  night, 

And  our  chart  a  looking-glass. 


PART  II 
THE  ARRIVAL 

With  rosy  finger-tips  the  Dawn 
Drew  back  the  silver  veils, 

Till  lilac  shimmered  into  lawn 
Above  the  satin  sails: 


28  THE  FLOWER  OF  OLD  JAPAN 

And  o'er  the  waters,  white  and  wan, 

In  tiny  patterned  state, 
We  saw  the  streets  of  Old  Japan 

Shine,  like  a  willow  plate. 

0,  many  a  milk-white  pigeon  roams 

The  purple  cherry  crops, 
The  mottled  miles  of  pearly  domes, 

And  blue  pagoda  tops, 
The  river  with  its  golden  canes 

And  dark  piratic  dhows, 
To  where  beyond  the  twisting  vanes 

The  burning  mountain  glows. 

A  snow-peak  in  the  silver  skies 

Beyond  that  magic  world, 
We  saw  the  great  volcano  rise 

With  incense  o'er  it  curled, 
Whose  tiny  thread  of  rose  and  blue 

Has  risen  since  time  began, 
Before  the  first  enchanter  knew 

The  peak  of  Old  Japan. 

Nobody  watched  us  quietly  steer 
The  pinnace  to  the  painted  pier, 

Except  one  pig-tailed  mandarin, 
Who  sat  upon  a  chest  of  tea 
Pretending  not  to  hear  or  see!   .    .    . 

His  hands  were  very  long  and  thin, 
His  face  was  very  broad  and  white; 
And  0,  it  was  a  fearful  sight 

To  see  him  sit  alone  and  grin! 

His  grin  was  very  sleek  and  sly: 
Timidly  we  passed  him  by. 

He  did  not  seem  at  all  to  care : 
So,  thinking  we  were  safely  past, 
We  ventured  to  look  back  at  last. 

0,  dreadful  blank! — He  was  not  there! 
He  must  have  hid  behind  his  chest : 
We  did  not  stay  to  see  the  rest. 


THE  FLOWER  OF  OLD  JAPAN  29 

But,  as  in  reckless  haste  we  ran, 
We  came  upon  the  tall  thin  man, 
Who  called  to  us  and  waved  his  fan, 

And  offered  us  his  palanquin: 
He  said  we  must  not  go  alone 
To  seek  the  ruby  wishing-stone, 

Because  the  white-faced  mandarin 
Would  dog  our  steps  for  many  a  mile, 
And  sit  upon  each  purple  stile 
Before  we  came  to  it,  and  smile 

And  smile;  his  name  was  Creeping  Sin. 


He  played  with  children's  beating  hearts, 
And  stuck  them  full  of  poisoned  darts 

And  long  green  thorns  that  stabbed  and  stung: 
He'd  watch  until  we  tried  to  speak, 
Then  thrust  inside  his  pasty  cheek 

His  long,  white,  slimy  tongue : 
And  smile  at  everything  we  said; 
And  sometimes  pat  us  on  the  head, 

And  say  that  we  were  very  young: 
He  was  a  cousin  of  the  man 
Who  said  that  there  was  no  Japan. 


And  night  and  day  this  Creeping  Sin 
Would  follow  the  path  of  the  palanquin; 

Yet  if  we  still  were  fain  to  touch 
The  ruby,  we  must  have  no  fear, 
Whatever  we  might  see  or  hear, 
And  the  tall  thin  man  would  take  us  there; 

He  did  not  fear  that  Sly  One  much, 
Except  perhaps  on  a  moonless  night, 
Nor  even  then  if  the  stars  were  bright. 


So,  in  the  yellow  palankeen 
We  swung  along  in  state  between 
Twinkling  domes  of  gold  and  green 
Through  the  rich  bazaar, 


30  THE  FLOWER  OF  OLD  JAPAN 

Where  the  cross-legged  merchants  sat, 
Old  and  almond-eyed  and  fat, 
Each  upon  a  gorgeous  mat, 

Each  in  a  cymar; 
Each  in  crimson  samite  breeches, 
Watching  his  barbaric  riches. 

Cherry  blossom  breathing  sweet 
Whispered  o'er  the  dim  blue  street 
Where  with  fierce  uncertain  feet 

Tawny  pirates  walk: 
All  in  belts  and  baggy  blouses, 
Out  of  dreadful  opium  houses, 
Out  of  dens  where  Death  carouses, 

Horribly  they  stalk; 
Girt  with  ataghan  and  dagger, 
Right  across  the  road  they  swagger. 

And  where  the  cherry  orchards  blow, 
We  saw  the  maids  of  Miyako, 
Swaying  softly  to  and  fro 

Through  the  dimness  of  the  dance: 
Like  sweet  thoughts  that  shine  through  dreams 
They  glided,  wreathing  rosy  gleams, 
With  stately  sounds  of  silken  streams, 

And  many  a  slim  kohl-lidded  glance; 
Then  fluttered  with  tiny  rose-bud  feet 
To  a  soft  frou-frou  and  a  rhythmic  beat 
As  the  music  shimmered,  pursuit,  retreat, 

"Hands  across,  retire,  advance!" 
And  again  it  changed  and  the  glimmering  throng 
Faded  into  a  distant  song. 


SONG 

The  maidens  of  Miyako 
Dance  in  the  sunset  hours, 

Deep  in  the  sunset  glow, 
Under  the  cherry  flowers. 


THE  FLOWER  OF  OLD  JAPAN  31 

With  dreamy  hands  of  pearl 

Floating  like  butterflies, 
Dimly  the  dancers  whirl 

As  the  rose-light  dies; 

And  their  floating  goivns,  their  hair 

Upbound  with  curious  pins, 
Fade  thro'  the  darkening  air 

With  the  dancing  mandarins. 

And  then,  as  we  went,  the  tall  thin  man 
Explained  the  manners  of  Old  Japan; 

If  you  pitied  a  thing,  you  pretended  to  sneer; 
Yet  if  you  were  glad  you  ran  to  buy 
A  captive  pigeon  and  let  it  fly; 

And,  if  you  were  sad,  you  took  a  spear 
To  wound  yourself,  for  fear  your  pain 
Should  quietly  grow  less  again. 

And,  again  he  said,  if  we  wished  to  find 
The  mystic  City  that  enshrined 

The  stone  so  few  on  earth  had  found, 
We  must  be  very  brave ;  it  lay 
A  hundred  haunted  leagues  away, 

Past  many  a  griffon-guarded  ground, 
In  depths  of  dark  and  curious  art, 
Where  passion-flowers  enfold  apart 
The  Temple  of  the  Flaming  Heart, 

The  City  of  the  Secret  Wound. 

About  the  fragrant  fall  of  day 
We  saw  beside  the  twisted  way 

A  blue-domed  tea-house,  bossed  with  gold; 
Hungry  and  thirsty  we  entered  in, 
How  should  we  know  what  Creeping  Sin 

Had  breathed  in  that  Emperor's  ear  who  sold 
His  own  dumb  soul  for  an  evil  jewel 
To  the  earth-gods,  blind  and  ugly  and  cruel? 

We  drank  sweet  tea  as  his  tale  was  told, 
In  a  garden  of  blue  chrysanthemums, 
While  a  drowsy  swarming  of  gongs  and  drums 

Out  of  the  sunset  dreamily  rolled. 


32  THE  FLOWER  OF  OLD  JAPAN 

But,  as  the  murmur  nearer  drew, 
A  fat  black  bonze,  in  a  robe  of  blue, 

Suddenly  at  the  gate  appeared; 
And  close  behind,  with  that  evil  grin, 
Was  it  Creeping  Sin,  was  it  Creeping  Sinf 

The  bonze  looked  quietly  down  and  sneered. 
Our  guide!  Was  he  sleeping?     WTe  could  not 

wake  him, 
However  we  tried  to  pinch  and  shake  him! 

Nearer,  nearer  the  tumult  came, 
Till,  as  a  glare  of  sound  and  flame, 

Blind  from  a  terrible  furnace  door 
Blares,  or  the  mouth  of  a  dragon,  blazed 
The  seething  gateway:  deaf  and  dazed 

With  the  clanging  and  the  wild  uproar 
We  stood;  while  a  thousand  oval  e3res 
Gapped  our  fear  with  a  sick  surmise. 

Then,  as  the  dead  sea  parted  asunder, 
The  clamour  clove  with  a  sound  of  thunder 

In  two  great  billows;  and  all  was  quiet. 
Gaunt  and  black  was  the  palankeen 
That  came  in  dreadful  state  between 

The  frozen  waves  of  the  wild-eyed  riot 
Curling  back  from  the  breathless  track 
Of  the  Nameless  One  who  is  never  seen: 

The  close  drawn  curtains  were  thick  and  black ; 
But  wizen  and  white  was  the  tall  thin  man 

As  he  rose  in  his  sleep: 
His  eyes  were  closed,  his  lips  were  wan, 

He  crouched  like  a  leopard  that  dares  not 
leap. 

The  bearers  halted:  the  tall  thin  man, 
Fearfully  dreaming,  waved  his  fan, 
With  wizard  fingers,  to  and  fro; 
While,  with  a  whimper  of  evil  glee, 
The  Nameless  Emperor's  mad  Moonshee 
Stepped  in  front  of  us:  dark  and  slow 


THE  FLOWER  OF  OLD  JAPAN  33 

Were  the  words  of  the  doom  that  he  dared  not 

name; 
But,  over  the  ground,  as  he  spoke  there  came 
Tiny  circles  of  soft  blue  flame; 

Like  ghosts  of  flowers  they  began  to  glow, 
And  flow  like  a  moonlit  brook  between 
Our  feet  and  the  terrible  palankeen. 

But  the  Moonshee  wrinkled  his  long  thin  eyes, 
And  sneered,  "Have  you  stolen  the  strength  of 
the  skies? 

Then  pour  before  us  a  stream  of  pearl ! 
Give  us  the  pearl  and  the  gold  we  know, 
And  our  hearts  will  be  softened  and  let  you  go; 

But  these  are  toys  for  a  foolish  girl — 
These  vanishing  blossoms — what  are  they  worth? 
They  are  not  so  heavy  as  dust  and  earth: 

Pour  before  us  a  stream  of  pearl!" 

Then,  with  a  wild  strange  laugh,  our  guide 
Stretched  his  arms  to  the  West  and  cried 

Once,  and  a  song  came  over  the  sea; 
And  all  the  blossoms  of  moon-soft  fire 
Woke  and  breathed  as  a  wind-swept  lyre, 

And  the  garden  surged  into  harmony; 
Till  it  seemed  that  the  soul  of  the  whole  world 

sung, 
And  every  petal  became  a  tongue 

To  tell  the  thoughts  of  Eternity. 

But  the  Moonshee  lifted  his  painted  brows 
And  stared  at  the  gold  on  the  blue  tea-house: 
"Can  you  clothe  your  body  with  dreams?" 
he  sneered; 
"If  you  taught  us  the  truths  that  we  always 

know 
Our  heart  might  be  softened  and  let  you  go: 
Can  you  tell  us  the  length  of  a  monkey's 
beard, 
Or  the  weight  of  the  gems  on  the  Emperor's  fan, 
Or  the  number  of  parrots  in  Old  Japan?" 

3 


34  THE  FLOWER  OF  OLD  JAPAN 

And  again,  with  a  wild  strange  laugh,  our  guide 
Looked  at  him;  and  he  shrunk  aside, 

Shrivelling  like  a  flame-touched  leaf; 
For  the  red-cross  blossoms  of  soft  blue  fire 
Were  growing  and  fluttering  higher  and  higher, 

Shaking  their  petals  out,  sheaf  by  sheaf, 
Till  with  disks  like  shields  and  stems  like  towers 
Burned  the  host  of  the  passion-flowers 

.    .    .   Had  the  Moonshee  flown  like  a  midnight 
thief? 
.    .    .   Yet  a  thing  like  a  monkey,  shrivelled  and 

black, 
Chattered  and  danced  as  they  forced  him  back. 


As  the  coward  chatters  for  empty  pride, 

In  the  face  of  a  foe  that  he  cannot  but  fear, 
It  chattered  and  leapt  from  side  to  side, 

And  its  voice  rang  strangely  upon  the  ear. 
As  the  cry  of  a  wizard  that  dares  not  own 
Another's  brighter  and  mightier  throne; 
As  the  wrath  of  a  fool  that  rails  aloud 

On  the  fire  that  burnt  him;  the  brazen  bray 
Clamoured  and  sang  o'er  the  gaping  crowd, 

And  flapped  like  a  gabbling  goose  away. 


THE  CRY  OF  THE  MAD  MOONSHEE 

If  the  blossoms  were  beans, 

I  should  know  what  it  means — 
This  blaze,  which  I  certainly  cannot  endure; 

It  is  evil,  too, 

For  its  colour  is  blue, 
And  the  sense  of  the  matter  is  quite  obscure. 

Celestial  truth 

Is  the  food  of  youth; 
But  the  music  was  dark  as  a  moonless  night. 

The  facts  in  the  song 

Were  all  of  them  wrong, 


THE  FLOWER  OF  OLD  JAPAN  35 

And  there  was  not  a  single  sum  done  right; 
Tho'  a  metaphysician  amongst  the  crowd, 
In  a  voice  that  was  notably  deep  and  loud, 
Repeated,  as  fast  as  he  was  able, 
The  whole  of  the  multiplication  table. 

So  the  cry  flapped  off  as  a  wild  goose  flies, 
And  the  stars  came  out  in  the  trembling  skies, 

And  ever  the  mystic  glory  grew 
In  the  garden  of  blue  chrysanthemums, 
Till  there  came  a  rumble  of  distant  drums; 

And  the  multitude  suddenly  turned  and  flew. 
...  A  dead  ape  lay  where  their  feet  had 

been  .    .    . 
And  we  called  for  the  yellow  palankeen, 

And  the  flowers  divided  and  let  us  through. 

The  black-barred  moon  was  large  and  low 
When  we  came  to  the  Forest  of  Ancient  Woe; 

And  over  our  heads  the  stars  were  bright. 
But  through  the  forest  the  path  we  travelled 
Its  phosphorescent  aisle  unravelled 

In  one  thin  ribbon  of  dwindling  light: 
And  twice  and  thrice  on  the  fainting  track 
We  paused  to  listen.     The  moon  grew  black, 

But  the  coolies'  faces  glimmered  white, 
As  the  wild  woods  echoed  in  dreadful  chorus 
A  laugh  that  came  horribly  hopping  o'er  us 

Like  monstrous  frogs  thro'  the  murky  night. 

Then  the  tall  thin  man  as  we  swung  along 
Sang  us  an  old  enchanted  song 

That  lightened  our  hearts  of  their  fearful  load. 
But,  e'en  as  the  moonlit  air  grew  sweet, 
We  heard  the  pad  of  stealthy  feet 

Dogging  us  down  the  thin  white  road; 
And  the  song  grew  weary  again  and  harsh, 
And  the  black  trees  dripped  like  the  fringe  of  a 
marsh, 

And  a  laugh  crept  out  like  a  shadowy  toad; 
And  we  knew  it  was  neither  ghoul  nor  djinn: 
It  was  Creeping  Sin!    It  was  Creeping  Sin! 


36  THE  FLOWER  OF  OLD  JAPAN 

But  we  came  to  a  bend,  and  the  white  moon 

glowed 
Like  a  gate  at  the  end  of  the  narrowing  road 

Far  away;  and  on  either  hand, 
As  guards  of  a  path  to  the  heart's  desire, 
The  strange  tall  blossoms  of  soft  blue  fire 

Stretched  away  thro'  that  unknown  land, 
League  on  league  with  their  dwindling  lane 
Down  to  the  large  low  moon;  and  again 
There  shimmered  around  us  that  mystical  strain, 

In  a  tongue  that  it  seemed  we  could  under- 
stand. 


SONG 

Hold  by  right  and  rule  by  fear 
Till  the  slowly  broadening  sphere 
Melting  through  the  skies  above 
Merge  into  the  sphere  of  love. 

Hold  by  might  until  you  find 
Might  is  poiverless  o'er  the  mind: 
Hold  by  Truth  until  you  see, 
Though  they  bow  before  the  wind, 
Its  towers  can  mock  at  liberty. 

Time,  the  seneschal,  is  blind; 
Time  is  blind:  and  what  are  wet 
Captives  of  Infinity, 
Claiming  through  Truth's  prison  bars 
Kinship  with  the  wandering  stars. 

O,  who  could  tell  the  wild  weird  sights 
We  saw  in  all  the  daj^s  and  nights 

We  travelled  through  those  forests  old. 
We  saw  the  griffons  on  white  cliffs, 
Among  fantastic  hieroglyphs, 

Guarding  enormous  heaps  of  gold: 


THE  FLOWER  OF  OLD  JAPAN  37 

We  saw  the  Ghastroi — curious  men 
Who  dwell,  like  tigers,  in  a  den, 

And  howl  whene'er  the  moon  is  cold; 
They  stripe  themselves  with  red  and  black 
And  ride  upon  the  yellow  Yak. 


Their  dens  are  always  ankle-deep 
With  twisted  knives,  and  in  their  sleep 

They  often  cut  themselves;  they  say 
That  if  you  wish  to  live  in  peace 
The  surest  way  is  not  to  cease 

Collecting  knives;  and  never  a  day 
Can  pass,  unless  they  buy  a  few; 
And  as  their  enemies  buy  them  too 

They  all  avert  the  impending  fray, 
And  starve  their  children  and  their  wives 
To  buy  the  necessary  knives. 


The  forest  leapt  with  shadowy  shapes 
As  we  came  to  the  great  black  Tower  of 

Apes: 
But  we  gave  them  purple  figs  and  grapes 

In  alabaster  amphoras: 
We  gave  them  curious  kinds  of  fruit 
With  betel  nuts  and  orris-root, 

And  then  they  let  us  pass: 
And  when  we  reached  the  Tower  of  Snakes 
We  gave  them  soft  white  honey-cakes, 

And  warm  sweet  milk  in  bowls  of  brass: 
And  on  the  hundredth  eve  we  found 
The  City  of  the  Secret  Wound. 


We  saw  the  mystic  blossoms  blow 
Round  the  City,  far  below; 
Faintly  in  the  sunset  glow 
We  saw  the  soft  blue  glory  flow 


38  THE  FLOWER  OF  OLD  JAPAN 

O'er  many  a  golden  garden  gate: 
And  o'er  the  tiny  dark  green  seas 
Of  tamarisks  and  tulip-trees, 
Domes  like  golden  oranges 

Dream  aloft  elate. 


And  clearer,  clearer  as  we  went, 

We  heard  from  tower  and  battlement 

A  whisper,  like  a  warning,  sent 

From  watchers  out  of  sight; 
And  clearer,  brighter,  as  we  drew 
Close  to  the  walls,  we  saw  the  blue 
Flashing  of  plumes  where  peacocks  flew 

Thro'  zones  of  pearly  light. 

On  either  side,  a  fat  black  bonze 
Guarded  the  gates  of  red-wrought  bronze, 
Blazoned  •with  blue  sea-dragons 

And  mouths  of  yawning  flame ; 
Down  the  road  of  dusty  red, 
Though  their  brown  feet  ached  and  bled, 
Our  coolies  went  with  joyful  tread: 
Like  living  fans  the  gates  outspread 
And  opened  as  we  came. 


PART  III 
THE  MYSTIC  RUBY 

The  white  moon  dawned;  the  sunset  died; 
And  stars  were  trembling  when  we  spied 

The  rose-red  temple  of  our  dreams: 
Its  lamp-lit  gardens  glimmered  cool 
With  many  an  onyx-paven  pool, 

Amid  soft  sounds  of  flowing  streams; 
Where  star-shine  shimmered  through  the  white 
Tall  fountain-shafts  of  crystal  light 

In  ever  changing  rainbow-gleams. 


THE  FLOWER  OF  OLD  JAPAN  39 

Priests  in  flowing  yellow  robes 
Glided  under  rosy  globes 

Through  the  green  pomegranate  boughs 
Moonbeams  poured  their  coloured  rain; 
Roofs  of  sea-green  porcelain 

Jutted  o'er  the  rose-red  house; 
Bells  were  hung  beneath  its  eaves; 
Every  wind  that  stirred  the  leaves 

Tinlded  as  tired  water  does. 

The  temple  had  a  low  broad  base 
Of  black  bright  marble;  all  its  face 

Was  marble  bright  in  rosy  bloom; 
And  whore  two  sea-green  pillars  rose 
Deep  in  the  flower-soft  eave-shadows 

WTe  saw,  thro'  richly  sparkling  gloom, 
Wrought  in  marvellous  years  of  old 
With  bulls  and  peacocks  bossed  in  gold, 

The  doors  of  powdered  lacquer  loom. 

Quietly  then  the  tall  thin  man, 
Holding  his  turquoise-tinted  fan, 

Alighted  from  the  palanquin; 
We  followed:  never  painter  dreamed 
Of  how  that  dark  rich  temple  gleamed 

With  gules  of  jewelled  gloom  within; 
And  as  we  wondered  near  the  door 
A  priest  came  o'er  the  polished  floor 

In  sandals  of  soft  serpent-skin; 
His  mitre  shimmered  bright  and  blue 
With  pigeon's  breast-plumes.     When  he  knew 

Our  quest  he  stroked  his  broad  white  chin, 
And  looked  at  us  with  slanting  eyes 
And  smiled;  then  through  his  deep  disguise 
We  knew  him!    It  was  Creeping  Sin! 

But  cunningly  he  bowed  his  head 
Down  on  his  gilded  breast  and  said 

Come:  and  he  led  us  through  the  dusk 
Of  passages  whose  painted  walls 
Gleamed  with  dark  old  festivals; 


40  THE  FLOWER  OF  OLD  JAPAN 

Till  where  the  gloom  grew  sweet  with  musk 
And  incense,  through  a  door  of  amber 
We  came  into  a  high-arched  chamber. 

There  on  a  throne  of  jasper  sat 
A  monstrous  idol,  black  and  fat; 

Thick  rose-oil  dropped  upon  its  head: 
Drop  by  drop,  heavy  and  sweet, 
Trickled  down  to  its  ebon  feet 

Whereon  the  blood  of  goats  was  shed, 
And  smeared  around  its  perfumed  knees 
In  savage  midnight  mysteries. 

It  wore  about  its  bulging  waist 

A  belt  of  dark  green  bronze  enchased 

With  big,  soft,  cloudy  pearls;  its  wrists 
Were  clasped  about  with  moony  gems 
Gathered  from  dead  kings'  diadems; 

Its  throat  was  ringed  with  amethysts, 
And  in  its  awful  hand  it  held 
A  softly  smouldering  emerald. 

Silkily  murmured  Creeping  Sin, 
"This  is  the  stone  you  wished  to  win!" 

"White  Snake,"  replied  the  tall  thin  man, 
"Show  us  the  Ruby  Stone,  or  I 
Will  slay  thee  with  my  hands."     The  sly 

Long  eyelids  of  the  priest  began 
To  slant  aside;  and  then  once  more 
He  led  us  through  the  fragrant  door. 

And  now  along  the  passage  walls 
Were  painted  hideous  animals, 

With  hooded  eyes  and  cloven  stings: 
In  the  incense  that  like  shadowy  hair 
Streamed  over  them  they  seemed  to  stir 

Their  craggy  claws  and  crooked  wings. 
At  last  we  saw  strange  moon-wreaths  curl 
Around  a  deep,  soft  porch  of  pearl. 


THE  FLOWER  OF  OLD  JAPAN  41 

0,  what  enchanter  wove  in  dreams 
That  chapel  wild  with  shadowy  gleams 

And  prismy  colours  of  the  moon? 
Shrined  like  a  rainbow  in  a  mist 
Of  flowers,  the  fretted  amethyst 

Arches  rose  to  a  mystic  tune; 
And  never  mortal  art  inlaid 
Those  cloudy  floors  of  sea-soft  jade. 

There,' in  the  midst,  an  idol  rose 
White  as  the  silent  starlit  snows 

On  lonely  Himalayan  heights: 
Over  its  head  the  spikenard  spilled 
Down  to  its  feet,  with  myrrh  distilled 

In  distant,  odorous  Indian  nights: 
It  held  before  its  ivory  face 
A  flaming  yellow  chrysoprase. 

0,  silkily  murmured  Creeping  Sin, 
"This  is  the  stone  you  wished  to  win." 

But  in  his  ear  the  tall  thin  man 
Whispered  with  sloio,  strange  lips — we  knew 
Not  what,  but  Creeping  Sin  went  blue 

With  fear;  again  his  eyes  began 
To  slant  aside;  then  through  the  porch 
He  passed,  and  lit  a  tall,  brown  torch. 

Down  a  corridor  dark  as  death, 
With  beating  hearts  and  bated  breath 

We  hurried;  far  away  we  heard 
A  dreadful  hissing,  fierce  as  fire 
When  rain  begins  to  quench  a  pyre; 

And  where  the  smoky  torch-light  flared 
Strange  vermin  beat  their  batelike  wings, 
And  the  wet  walls  dropped  with  slimy  things,, 

And  darker,  darker,  wound  the  way, 
Beyond  all  gleams  of  night  and  day, 
And  still  that  hideous  hissing  grew 
Louder  and  louder  on  our  ears, 
And  tortured  us  with  eyeless  fears; 


42  THE  FLOWER  OF  OLD  JAPAN 

Then  suddenly  the  gloom  turned  blue, 
And,  in  the  wall,  a  rough  rock  cave 
Gaped,  like  a  phosphorescent  grave. 

And  from  the  purple  mist  within 
There  came  a  wild  tumultuous  din 

Of  snakes  that  reared  their  heads  and  hissed 
As  if  a  witch's  cauldron  boiled; 
All  round  the  door  great  serpents  coiled, 

With  eyes  of  glowing  amethyst, 
Whose  fierce  blue  flames  began  to  slide 
Like  shooting  stars  from  side  to  side. 

Ah !  with  a  sickly  gasping  grin 
And  quivering  eyelids,  Creeping  Sin 

Stole  to  the  cave;  but,  suddenly, 
As  through  its  glimmering  mouth  he  passed, 
The  serpents  flashed  and  gripped  him  fast: 

He  wriggled  and  gave  one  awful  cry, 
Then  all  at  once  the  cave  was  cleared; 
The  snakes  with  their  victim  had  disappeared. 

And  fearlessly  the  tall  thin  man 
Opened  his  turquoise-tinted  fan 

And  entered;  and  the  mists  grew  bright, 
And  we  saw  that  the  cave  was  a  diamond  hall 
Lit  with  lamps  for  a  festival. 

A  myriad  globes  of  coloured  light 
Went  gliding  deep  in  its  massy  sides, 
Like  the  shimmering  moons  in  the  glassy  tides 

Where  a  sea-king's  palace  enchants  the  night* 

Gliding  and  flowing,  a  glory  and  wonder, 
Through  each*  other,  and  over,  and  under, 

The  lucent  orbs  of  green  and  gold, 
Bright  with  sorrow  or  soft  with  sleep, 
In  music  through  the  glimmering  deep, 

Over  their  secret  axles  rolled, 
And  circled  by  the  murmuring  spheres 
We  saw  in  a  frame  of  frozen  tears 

A  mirror  that  made  the  blood  run  cold. 


THE  FLOWER  OP  OLD  JAPAN  43 

For,  when  we  came  to  it,  we  found 
It  imaged  everything  around 

Except  the  face  that  gazed  in  it; 
And  where  the  mirrored  face  should  be 
A  heart-shaped  Ruby  fierily 

Smouldered;  and  round  the  frame  was  writ, 
Mystery:  Time  and  Tide  shall  pass, 
I  am  the  Wisdom  Looking-Glass. 


This  is  the  Ruby  none  can  touch: 
Many  Jiave  loved  it  overmuch; 

Its  fathomless  fires  flutter  and  sigh, 
Being  as  images  of  the  flame 
That  shall  make  earth  and  heaven  the  same 

When  the  fire  of  tlxe  end  reddens  the  sky, 
And  the  world  consumes  like  a  burning  pall, 
Till  where  there  is  nothit^,  there  is  all. 


So  we  looked  up  at  the  tall  thin  man 

And  we  saw  that  his  face  grew  sad  and  wan: 

Tears  were  glistening  in  his  eyes: 
At  last,  with  a  breaking  sob,  he  bent 
His  head  upon  his  breast  and  went 

Swiftly  away !     With  dreadful  cries 
We  rushed  to  the  softly  glimmering  door 
And  stared  at  the  hideous  corridor. 

But  his  robe  was  gone  as  a  dream  that  flies: 
Back  to  the  glass  in  terror  we  came, 
And  stared  at  the  writing  round  the  frame. 


We  could  not  understand  one  word: 
And  suddenly  we  thought  we  heard 

The  hissing  of  the  snakes  again : 
How  could  we  front  them  all  alone? 
0,  madly  we  clutched  at  the  mirrored  stone 

And  wished  we  were  back  on  the  flowery  plain: 
And  swifter  than  thought  and  swift  as  fear 
The  whole  world  flashed,  and  behold  we  were  there. 


44  THE  FLOWER  OF  OLD  JAPAN 

Yes;  there  was  the  port  of  Old  Japan, 
With  its  twisted  patterns,  white  and  wan, 
Shining  like  a  mottled  fan 

Spread  by  the  blue  sea,  faint  and  far; 
And  far  away  we  heard  once  more 
A  sound  of  singing  on  the  shore, 
Where  boys  in  blue  kimonos  bore 

Roses  in  a  golden  jar: 
And  we  heard,  where  the  cherry  orchards  blow, 
The  serpent-charmers  fluting  low, 
And  the  song  of  the  maidens  of  Miyako. 


And  at  our  feet  unbroken  lay 

The  glass  that  had  whirled  us  thither  away: 

And  in  the  grass,  among  the  flowers 
We  sat  and  wished  all  sorts  of  things: 
0,  we  were  wealthier  than  kings! 

We  ruled  the  world  for  several  hours! 
And  then,  it  seemed,  we  knew  not  why, 
All  the  daisies  began  to  die. 


We  wished  them  alive  again;  but  soon 
The  trees  all  fled  up  towards  the  moon 

Like  peacocks  through  the  sunlit  air: 
And  the  butterflies  flapped  into  silver  fish; 
And  each  wish  spoiled  another  wish; 

Till  we  threw  the  glass  down  in  despair; 
For,  getting  whatever  you  want  to  get, 
Is  like  drinking  tea  from  a  fishing  net. 


At  last  we  thought  we'd  wish  once  more 
That  all  should  be  as  it  was  before; 

And  then  we'd  shatter  the  glass,  if  we  could; 
But  just  as  the  world  grew  right  again, 
We  heard  a  wanderer  out  on  the  plain 

Singing  what  none  of  us  understood; 
Yet  we  thought  that  the  world  grew  thrice  more  sweet 
And  the  meadows  were  blossoming  under  his  feet. 


THE  FLOWER  OF  OLD  JAPAN  45 

And  we  felt  a  grand  and  beautiful  fear, 

For  we  knew  that  a  marvellous  thought  drew  near; 

So  we  kept  the  glass  for  a  little  while: 
And  the  skies  grew  deeper  and  twice  as  bright, 
And  the  seas  grew  soft  as  a  flower  of  light, 

And  the  meadows  rippled  from  stile  to  stile; 
And  memories  danced  in  a  musical  throng 
Thro'  the  blossom  that  scented  the  wonderful  song. 


SONG 

We  sailed  across  the  silver  seas 

And  saw  the  sea-blue  bowers, 
We  saw  the  purple  cherry  trees, 

And  all  the  foreign  flowers, 
We  travelled  in  a  palanquin 

Beyond  the  caravan, 
And  yet  our  hearts  had  never  seen 

The  Flower  of  Old  Japan. 


The  Flower  above  all  other  flowers, 

The  Flower  that  never  dies; 
Before  whose  throne  the  scented  hours 

Offer  their  sacrifice; 
The  Flower  that  here  on  earth  below 

Reveals  the  heavenly  plan; 
But  only  little  children  know 

The  Flower  of  Old  Japan. 


There,  in  the  dim  blue  flowery  plain 
We  wished  with  the  magic  glass  again 

To  go  to  the  Flower  of  the  song's  desire: 
And  o'er  us  the  whole  of  the  soft  blue  sky 
Flashed  like  fire  as  the  world  went  by, 

And  far  beneath  us  the  sea  like  fire 
Flashed  in  one  swift  blue  brilliant  stream, 
And  the  journey  was  done,  like  a  change  in  a  dream. 


d6  THE  FLOWER  OF  OLD  JAPAN 

PART  IV 
THE  END  OF  THE  QUEST 

Like  the  dawn  upon  a  dream 

Slowly  through  the  scented  gloom 
Crept  once  more  the  ruddy  gleam 

O'er  the  friendly  nursery  room. 
There,  before  our  waking  eyes, 

Large  and  ghostly,  white  and  dim, 
Dreamed  the  Flower  that  never  dies5 

Opening  wide  its  rosy  rim. 

Spreading  like  a  ghostly  fan, 

Petals  white  as  porcelain, 
There  the  Flower  of  Old  Japan 

Told  us  we  were  home  again; 
For  a  soft  and  curious  light 

Suddenly  was  o'er  it  shed, 
And  we  saw  it  was  a  white 

English  daisy,  ringed  with  red. 

Slowly,  as  a  wavering  mist 

Waned  the  wonder  out  of  sight, 
To  a  sigh  of  amethyst, 

To  a  wraith  of  scented  light. 
Flower  and  magic  glass  had  gone; 

Near  the  clutching  fire  we  sat 
Dreaming,  dreaming,  all  alone, 

Each  upon  a  furry  mat. 

While  the  firelight,  red  and  clear, 

Fluttered  in  the  black  wet  pane, 
It  was  very  good  to  hear 

Howling  winds  and  trotting  rain. 
For  we  found  at  last  we  knew 

More  than  all  our  fancy  planned, 
All  the  fairy  tales  were  true, 

And  home  the  heart  of  fairyland. 


THE  FLOWER  OF  OLD  JAPAN  47 


EPILOGUE 

Carol,  every  violet  has 
Heaven  for  a  looking-glass! 

Every  little  valley  lies 
Under  many-clouded  skies; 
Every  little  cottage  stands 
Girt  about  with  boundless  lands. 
Every  little  glimmering  pond 
Claims  the  mighty  shores  beyond — 
Shores  no  seamen  ever  hailed, 
Seas  no  ship  has  ever  sailed. 

All  the  shores  when  day  is  done 
Fade  into  the  setting  sun, 
So  the  story  tries  to  teach 
More  than  can  be  told  in  speech. 

Beauty  is  a  fading  flower, 
Truth  is  but  a  wizard's  tower, 
Where  a  solemn  death-bell  tolls, 
And  a  forest  round  it  rolls. 

We  have  come  by  curious  ways 
To  the  Light  that  holds  the  days; 
We  have  sought  in  haunts  of  fear 
For  that  all-enfolding  sphere: 
And  lo !  it  was  not  far,  but  near. 

We  have  found,  O  foolish-fond, 
The  shore  that  has  no  shore  beyond. 

Deep  in  every  heart  it  lies 
With  its  untranscended  skies; 
For  what  heaven  should  bend  above 
Hearts  that  own  the  heaven  cf  love? 

Carol,  Carol,  we  have  come 
Back  to  heaven,  back  to  home. 


48  APES  AND  IVORY 


APES  AND  IVORY 

Apes  and  ivory,  skulls  and  roses,  in  junks  of  old  Hong-Kong, 
Gliding  over  a  sea  of  dreams  to  a  haunted  shore  of  song, 
Masts  of  gold  and  sails  of  satin,  shimmering  out  of  the  East, 
O,  Love  has  little  need  of  you  now  to  make  his  heart  a  feast. 

Or  is  it  an  elephant,  white  as  milk  and  bearing  a  severed  head 
That  tatters  his  broad  soft  wrinkled  flank  in  tawdry  patches 

of  red, 
With  a  negro  giant  to  walk  beside  and  a  temple  dome  above, 
Where  ruby  and  emerald  shatter  the  sun, — is  it  these  that 

should  please  my  love? 

Or  is  it  a  palace  of  pomegranates,  where  ivory-limbed  young 

slaves 
Lure  a  luxury  out  of  the  noon  in  the  swooning  fountain's 

waves; 
Or  couch  like  cats  and  sun  themselves  on  the  warm  white 

marble  brink? 
O,  Love  has  little  to  ask  of  these,  this  day  in  May,  I  think. 

Is  it  Lebanon  cedars  or  purple  fruits  of  the  honeyed  southron 

air, 
Spikenard,  saffron,  roses  of  Sharon,  cinnamon,  calamus,  myrrh, 
A  bed  of  spices,  a  fountain  of  waters,  or  the  wild  white  wings 

of  a  dove, 
Now,  when  the  winter  is  over  and  gone,  is  it  these  that  should 

please  my  love? 

The  leaves  outburst  on  the  hazel-bough  and  the  hawthorn's 

heaped  wi'  flower, 
And  God  has  bidden  the  crisp  clouds  build  my  love  a  lordlier 

tower, 
Taller  than  Lebanon,  whiter  than  snow,  in  the  fresh  blue  skies 

above; 
And  the  wild  rose  wakes  in  the  winding  lanes  of  the  radiant 

land  I  love. 


A  SONG  OF  SHERWOOD  49 

Apes  and  ivory,  skulls  and  roses,  in  junks  of  old  Hong-Kong, 
Gliding  over  a  sea  of  dreams  to  a  haunted  shore  of  song, 
Masts  of  gold  and  sails  of  satin,  shimmering  out  of  the  East, 
0,  Love  has  little  need  of  you  now  to  make  his  heart  a  feast. 


A  SONG  OF  SHERWOOD 

Sheewood  in  the  twilight,  is  Robin  Hood  awake? 
Grey  and  ghostly  shadows  are  gliding  through  the  brake, 
Shadows  of  the  dappled  deer,  dreaming  of  the  morn, 
Dreaming  of  a  shadowy  man  that  winds  a  shadowy  horn. 

Robin  Hood  is  here  again:  all  his  merry  thieves 

Hear  a  ghostly  bugle-note  shivering  through  the  leaves, 

Calling  as  he  used  to  call,  faint  and  far  away, 

In  Sherwood,  in  Sherwood,  about  the  break  of  day. 

Merry,  merry  England  has  kissed  the  lips  of  June: 
All  the  wings  of  fairyland  were  here  beneath  the  moon, 
Like  a  flight  of  rose-leaves  fluttering  in  a  mist 
Of  opal  and  ruby  and  pearl  and  amethyst. 

Merry,  merry  England  is  waking  as  of  old, 

With  eyes  of  blither  hazel  and  hair  of  brighter  gold: 

For  Robin  Hood  is  here  again  beneath  the  bursting  spray 

In  Sherwood,  in  Sherwood,  about  the  break  of  day. 

Love  is  in  the  greenwood  building  him  a  house 
Of  wild  rose  and  hawthorn  and  honeysuckle  boughs: 
Love  is  in  the  greenwood,  dawn  is  in  the  skies, 
And  Marian  is  waiting  with  a  glory  in  her  eyes. 

Hark!    The  dazzled  laverock  climbs  the  golden  steep! 

Marian  is  waiting:  is  Robin  Hood  asleep? 

Round  the  fairy  grass-rings  frolic  elf  and  fay, 

In  Sherwood,  in  Sherwood,  about  the  break  of  day. 

Oberon,  Oberon,  rake  away  the  gold, 
Rake  away  the  red  leaves,  roll  away  the  mould, 
Rake  away  the  gold  leaves,  roll  away  the  red, 
And  wake  Will  Scarlett  from  his  leafy  forest  bed. 


,50  THE  WORLD'S  MAY-QUEEN 

Friar  Tuck  and  Little  John  are  riding  down  together 
With  quarter-staff  and  drinldng-can  and  grey  goose-feather. 
The  dead  are  coming  back  again,  the  years  are  rolled  away 
In  Sherwood,  in  Sherwood,  about  the  break  of  day. 

Softly  over  Sherwood  the  south  wind  blows. 
All  the  heart  of  England  hid  in  every  rose 
Hears  across  the  greenwood  the  sunny  whisper  leap, 
Sherwood  in  the  red  dawn,  is  Robin  Hood  asleep? 

Hark,  the  voice  of  England  wakes  him  as  of  old 
And,  shattering  the  silence  with  a  cry  of  brighter  gold 
Bugles  in  the  greenwood  echo  from  the  steep, 
Sherwood  in  the  red  dawn,  is  Robin  Hood  asleep? 

Where  the  deer  are  gliding  down  the  shadowy  glen 
All  across  the  glades  of  fern  he  calls  his  merry  men — 
Doublets  of  the  Lincoln  green  glancing  through  the  May 
In  Sherwood,  in  Sherwood,  about  the  break  of  day — 

Calls  them  and  they  answer:  from  aisles  of  oak  and  ash 
Rings  the  Follow!  Follow!  and  the  boughs  begin  to  crash, 
The  ferns  begin  to  flutter  and  the  flowers  begin  to  fly, 
And  through  the  crimson  dawning  the  robber  band  gees  by. 

Robin!  Robin!  Robin!    All  his  merry  thieves 
Answer  as  the  bugle-note  shivers  through  the  leaves, 
Calling  as  he  used  to  call,  faint  and  far  away, 
In  Sherwood,  in  Sherwood,  about  the  break  of  day. 


THE  WORLD'S  MAY-QUEEN 
I 

Whither  away  is  the  Spring  to-day? 

To  England,  to  England ! 
In  France  they  heard  the  South  wind  say, 
"She's  off  on  a  quest  for  a  Queen  o'  the  May, 
So  she's  over  the  hills  far  away, 

To  England!" 


THE  WORLD'S  MAY-QUEEN  51 

And  why  did  she  fly  with  her  golden  feet 

To  England,  to  England? 
In  Italy,  too,  they  heard  the  sweet 
Roses  whisper  and  flutter  and  beat — 
"She's  an  old  and  a  true,  true  love  to  greet 

In  England!" 

A  moon  ago  there  came  a  cry 

From  England,  from  England, 
Faintly,  fondly  it  faltered  nigh 
The  throne  of  the  Spring  in  the  Southern  sky, 
And  it  whispered  "Come,"  and  the  world  went  by, 
And  with  one  long  loving  blissful  sigh 

The  Spring  was  away  to  England ! 


II 

When  Spring  comes  back  to  England 

And  crowns  her  brows  with  May, 
Round  the  merry  moonlit  world 

She  goes  the  greenwood  way: 
She  throws  a  rose  to  Italy, 

A  fleur-de-lys  to  France; 
But  round  her  regal  morris-ring 

The  seas  of  England  dance. 

When  Spring  comes  back  to  England 

And  dons  her  robe  of  green, 
There's  many  a  nation  garlanded 

But  England  is  the  Queen; 
She's  Queen,  she's  Queen  of  all  the  world 

Beneath  the  laughing  sky, 
For  the  nations  go  a-Maying 

When  they  hear  the  New  Year  cry — 

"Come  over  the  water  to  England, 

My  old  love,  my  new  love, 
Come  over  the  water  to  England, 

In  showers  of  flowery  rain; 


52  THE  WORLD'S  MAY-QUEEN 

Come  over  the  water  to  England, 

April,  n^  true  love; 
And  tell  the  heart  of  England 

The  Spring  is  here  again!" 

Ill 

So  it's  here,  she  is  here  with  her  eyes  of  blue 

In  England,  in  England! 
She  has  brought  us  the  rainbows  with  her,  too, 
And  a  glory  of  shimmering  glimmering  dew 
And  a  heaven  of  quivering  scent  and  hue 
And  a  lily  for  me  and  a  rose  for  you 

In  England. 

There's  many  a  wanderer  far  away 

From  England,  from  England, 
Will  toss  upon  his  couch  and  say — 
Though  Spain  is  proud  and  France  is  gay, 
And  there's  many  a  foot  on  the  primrose  way, 
The  world  has  never  a  Queen  o'  the  May 
But  England. 

IV 

When  Drake  went  out  to  seek  for  gold 

Across  the  uncharted  sea, 
And  saw  the  Western  skies  unfold 

Their  veils  of  mystery; 
To  lure  him  through  the  fevered  hours 

As  nigh  to  death  he  lay, 
There  floated  o'er  the  foreign  flowers 

A  breath  of  English  May : 

And  back  to  Devon  shores  again 

His  dreaming  spirit  flew 
Over  the  splendid  Spanish  Main 

To  haunts  his  childhood  knew, 
Whispering  "God  forgive  the  blind 

Desire  that  bade  me  roam, 
I've  sailed  around  the  world  to  find 

The  sweetest  way  to  home." 


PIRATES  53 

V 

And  it's  whither  away  is  the  Spring  to-day? 

To  England,  to  England ! 
In  France  you'll  hear  the  South  wind  say, 
"She  off  on  a  quest  for  a  Queen  o'  the  May, 
So  she's  over  the  hills  and  far  away, 

To  England!" 

She's  flown  with  the  swallows  across  the  sea 

To  England,  to  England ! 
For  there's  many  a  land  of  the  brave  and  free 
But  never  a  home  o'  the  hawthorn-tree, 
And  never  a  Queen  o'  the  May  for  me 

But  England ! 

And  round  the  fairy  revels  whirl 

In  England,  in  England! 
And  the  buds  outbreak  and  the  leaves  unfurl, 
And  where  the  crisp  white  cloudlets  curl 
The  Dawn  comes  up  like  a  primrose  girl 
With  a  crowd  of  flowers  in  a  basket  of  pearl 

For  England ! 


PIRATES 

Come  to  me,  you  with  the  laughing  face,  in  the  night  as  I  lie 
Dreaming  of  days  that  are  dead  and  of  joys  gone  by; 
Come  to  me,  comrade,  come  through  the  slow-dropping  rain, 
Come  from  your  grave  in  the  darkness  and  let  us  be  pirates 
again. 

Let  us  be  boys  together  to-night,  and  pretend  as  of  old 
We  are  pirates  at  rest  in  a  cave  among  huge  heaps  of  gold, 
Red  Spanish  doubloons  and  great  pieces  of  eight,  and  muskets 

and  swords, 
And  a  smoky  red  camp-fire  to  glint,  you  know  how,  on  our  ill- 
gotten  hoards. 


54  PIRATES 

The  old  cave  in  the  fir-wood  that  slopes  down  the  hills  to  the 

sea 
Still  is  haunted,  perhaps,  by  young  pirates  as  wicked  as  we: 
Though  the  fir  with  the  magpie's  big  mud-plastered  nest  used 

to  hide  it  so  well, 
And  the  boys  in  the  gang  had  to  swear  that  they  never  would 

tell. 

Ah,  that  tree;  I  have  sat  in  its  boughs  and  looked  seaward  for 

hours. 
I  remember  the  creak  of  its  branches,  the  scent  of  the  flowers 
That  climbed  round  the  mouth  of  the  cave.     It  is  odd  I  recall 
Those  little  things  best,  that  I  scarcely  took  heed  of  at  all. 

I  remember  how  brightly  the  brass  on  the  butt  of  my  spy-glass 
gleamed 

As  I  climbed  through  the  purple  heather  and  thyme  to  our 
ej'rie  and  dreamed; 

I  remember  the  smooth  glossy  sun-burn  that  darkened  our 
faces  and  hands 

As  we  gazed  at  the  merchantmen  sailing  away  to  those  wonder- 
ful lands. 

I  remember  the  long,  slow  sigh  of  the  sea  as  we  raced  in  the 

sun, 
To  dry  ourselves  after  our  swimming;  and  how  we  would  run 
With  a  cry  and  a  crash  through  the  foam  as  it  creamed  on  the 

shore, 
Then  back  to  bask  in  the  warm  dry  gold  of  the  sand  once  more. 

Come  to  me,  you  with  the  laughing  face,  in  the  gloom  as  I  lie 

Dreaming  of  days  that  are  dead  and  of  joys  gone  by; 

Let  us  be  boys  together  to-night  and  pretend  as  of  old 

We  are  pirates  at  rest  in  a  cave  among  great  heaps  of  gold. 

Come;  you  shall  be  chief.     We'll  not  quarrel,  the  time  flies  so 

fast. 
There  are  ships  to  be  grappled,  there's  blood  to  be  shed,  ere 

our  playtime  be  past. 
No;  perhaps  we  will  quarrel,  just  once,  or  it  scarcely  will  seem 
So  like  the  old  days  that  have  flown  from  us  both  like  a  dream. 


A  SONG  OF  ENGLAND  55 

Still;  you  shall  be  chief  in  the  end;  and  then  we'll  go  home 

To  the  hearth  and  the  tea  and  the  books  that  we  loved:  ah, 
but  come, 

Come  to  me,  come  through  the  night  and  the  slow-dropping 
rain; 

Come,  old  friend,  come  thro'  the  darkness  and  let  us  be  play- 
mates again. 


A  SONG  OF  ENGLAND 

There  is  a  song  of  England  that  none  shall  ever  sing; 

So  sweet  it  is  and  fleet  it  is 
That  none  whose  words  are  not  as  fleet  as  birds  upon 
the  wing, 

And  regal  as  her  mountains, 

And  radiant  as  the  fountains 
Of  rainbow-coloured  sea-spray  that  every  wave  can  fling 
Against  the  cliffs  of  England,  the  sturdy  cliffs  of  England, 

Could  more  than  seem  to  dream  of  it, 

Or  catch  one  flying  gleam  of  it, 
Above  the  seas  of  England  that  never  cease  to  sing. 

There  is  a  song  of  England  that  only  lovers  know; 

So  rare  it  is  and  fair  it  is, 
O,  like  a  fairy  rose  it  is  upon  a  drift  of  snow, 

So  cold  and  sweet  and  sunny, 

So  full  of  hidden  honey, 
So  like  a  flight  of  butterflies  where  rose  and  lily  blow 
Along  the  lanes  of  England,  the  leafy  lanes  of  England; 

When  flowers  are  at  their  vespers 

And  full  of  little  whispers, 
The  boys  and  girls  of  England  shall  sing  it  as  they  go. 

There  is  a  song  of  England  that>only  love  may  sing, 

So  sure  it  is  and  pure  it  is; 
And  seaward  with  the  sea-mew  it  spreads  a  whiter  wing, 

And  with  the  sky-lark  hovers 

Above  the  tryst  of  lovers, 
Above  the  kiss  and  whisper  that  led  the  lovely  Spring 


56  A  SONG  OF  ENGLAND 

Through  all  the  glades  of  England,  the  ferny  glades  of  England, 
Until  the  way  enwound  her 
With  sprays  of  May,  and  crowned  her 

With  stars  of  frosty  blossom  in  a  merry  morris-ring. 

There  is  a  song  of  England  that  haunts  her  hours  of  rest: 

The  calm  of  it  and  balm  of  it 
Are  breathed  from  every  hedgerow  that  blushes  to  the  West* 

From  the  cottage  doors  that  nightly 

Cast  their  welcome  out  so  brightly 
On  the  lanes  where  laughing  children  are  lifted  and  caressed 
By  the  tenderest  hands  in  England,  hard  and  blistered  hands  of 
England: 

And  from  the  restful  sighing 

Of  the  sleepers  that  are  lying 
With  the  arms  of  God  around  them  on  the  night's  contented 
breast. 

There  is  a  song  of  England  that  wanders  on  the  wind; 

So  sad  it  is  and  glad  it  is 
That  men  who  hear  it  madden  and  their  eyes  are  wet  and  blind, 

For  the  lowlands  and  the  highlands 

Of  the  unforgotten  islands, 
For  the  Islands  of  the  Blessed  and  the  rest  they  cannot  find 
As  they  grope  in  dreams  to  England  and  the  love  they  left  in 
England; 

Little  feet  that  danced  to  meet  them 

And  the  lips  that  used  to  greet  them, 
And  the  watcher  at  the  window  in  the  home  they  left  behind. 

There  is  a  song  of  England  that  thrills  the  beating  blood 

With  burning  cries  and  yearning 
Tides  of  hidden  aspiration  hardly  known  or  understood; 

Aspirations  of  the  creature 

Tow'rds  the  unity  of  Nature; 
Sudden  chivalries  revealing  whence  the  longing  is  renewed 
In  the  men  that  live  for  England,  live  and  love  and  die  for 
England: 

By  the  light  of  their  desire 

They  shall  blindly  blunder  higher, 
To  a  wider,  grander  Kingdom  and  a  deeper,  nobler  Good. 


THE  OLD  SCEPTIC  57 

There  is  a  song  of  England  that  only  heaven  can  hear; 

So  gloriously  victorious, 
It  soars  above  the  choral  stars  that  sing  the  Golden  Year; 

Till  even  the  cloudy  shadows 

That  wander  o'er  her  meadows 
In  silent  purple  harmonies  declare  His  glory  there, 
Along  the  hills  of  England,  the  billowy  hills  of  England; 

While  heaven  rolls  and  ranges 

Through  all  the  myriad  changes 
That  mirror  God  in  music  to  the  mortal  eye  and  ear. 


There  is  a  song  of  England  that  none  shall  ever  sing; 

So  sweet  it  is  and  fleet  it  is 
That  none  whose  words  are  not  as  fleet  as  birds  upon  the  wing, 

And  regal  as  her  mountains, 

And  radiant  as  her  fountains 
Of  rainbow-coloured  sea-spray  that  every  wave  can  fling 
Against  the  cliffs  of  England,  the  sturdy  cliffs  of  England, 

Coidd  more  than  seem  to  dream  of  it, 

Or  catch  one  flying  gleam  of  it, 
Above  the  seas  of  England  that  never  cease  to  sing. 


THE  OLD  SCEPTIC 

I  am  weary  of  disbelieving:  why  should  I  wound  my  love 
To  pleasure  a  sophist's  pride  in  a  graven  image  of  truth? 

I  will  go  back  to  my  home,  with  the  clouds  and  the  stars  above, 
And  the  heaven  I  used  to  know,  and  the  God  of  my  buried 
youth. 


I  will  go  back  to  the  home  where  of  old  in  my  boyish  pride 

I  pierced  my  father's  heart  with  a  murmur  of  unbelief. 
He  only  looked  in  my  face  as  I  spoke,  but  his  mute  eyes 
cried 
Night  after  night  in  my  dreams;  and  he  died  in  grief,  in 
grief. 


58  THE  OLD  SCEPTIC 

Books?     I  have  read  the  books,  the  books  that  we  write  our- 
selves, 
Extolling  our  love  of  an  abstract  truth  and  our  pride  of 
debate : 
I  will  go  back  to  the  love  of  the  cotter  who  sings  as  he  delves, 
To  that  childish  infinite  love  and  the  God  above  fact  and 
date. 

To  that  ignorant  infinite  God  who  colours  the  meaningless 
flowers, 
To  that  lawless  infinite  Poet  who  crowns  the  law  with  the 
crime; 
To  the  Weaver  who  covers  the  world  with  a  garment  of  wonder- 
ful hours, 
And  holds  in  His  hand  like  threads  the  tales  and  the  truths 
of  time. 

Is  the  faith  of  the  cotter  so  simple  and  narrow  as  this?    Ah, 
well, 
It  is  hardly  so  narrow  as  yours  who  daub  and  plaster  with 
dyes 
The  shining  mirrors  of  heaven,  the  shadowy  mirrors  of  hell, 
And  blot  out  the  dark  deep  vision,  if  it  seem  to  be  framed 
with  lies. 

No  faith  I  hurl  against  you,  no  fact  to  freeze  your  sneers. 

Only  the  doubt  you  taught  me  to  weld  in  the  fires  of  youth 
Leaps  to  my  hand  like  the  flaming  sword  of  nineteen  hundred 
years, 

The  sword  of  the  high  God's  answer,  0  Pilate,  what  is  truth? 

Your  laughter  has  killed  more  hearts  than  ever  were  pierced 
with  swords, 

Ever  you  daub  new  mirrors  and  turn  the  old  to  the  wall; 
And  more  than  blood  is  lost  in  the  weary  battle  of  words; 

For  creeds  are  many;  but  God  is  One,  and  contains  them  all. 

Ah,  why  should  we  strive  or  cry?     Surely  the  end  is  close! 

Hold  by  your  little  truths :  deem  your  triumph  complete ! 
But  nothing  is  true  or  false  in  the  infinite  heart  of  the  rose; 

And  the  earth  is  a  little  dust  that  clings  to  our  travelling  feet. 


THE  DEATH  OF  CHOPIN  59 

1  will  go  back  to  my  home  and  look  at  the  wayside  flowers, 
And  hear  from  the  wayside  cabins  the  kind  old  hymns  again, 

Where  Christ  holds  out  His  arms  in  the  quiet  evening  hours, 
And  the  light  of  the  chapel  porches  broods  on  the  peaceful 
lane. 

And  there  I  shall  hear  men  praying  the  deep  old  foolish  prayers, 
And  there  I  shall  see,  once  more,  the  fond  old  faith  confessed, 

And  the  strange  old  light  on  their  faces  who  hear  as  a  blind 
man  hears, — 
Come  unto  Me,  ye  weary,  and  I  will  give  you  rest. 

I  will  go  back  and  believe  in  the  deep  old  foolish  tales, 

And  pray  the  simple  prayers  that  I  learned  at  my  mother's 
knee, 
Where  the  Sabbath  tolls  its  peace  thro'  the  breathless  moun- 
tain-vales, 
And  the  sunset's  evening  hymn  hallows  the  listening  sea. 

THE  DEATH  OF  CHOPIN 

Sing  to  me !    Ah,  remember  how 

Poor  Heine  here  in  Paris  leant 
Watching  me  play  at  the  fall  of  day 

And  following  where  the  music  went, 
Till  that  old  cloud  upon  his  brow 

Was  almost  smoothed  away. 

"Do  roses  in  the  moonlight  flame 
Like  this  and  this?"  he  said  and  smiled; 

Then  bent  his  head  as  o'er  his  dead 
Brother  might  breathe  some  little  child 

The  accustomed  old  half-jesting  name, 
With  all  its  mockery  fled, 

Like  summer  lightnings,  far  away, 

In  heaven.     0,  what  Bohemian  nights 

We  passed  down  there  for  that  brief  year 
When  art  revealed  her  last  delights ; 

And  then,  that  night,  that  night  in  May 
When  Hugo  came  to  hear ! 


60  THE  DEATH  OF  CHOPIN 

"  Do  roses  in  the  moonlight  glow 
Like  this  and  this?"     I  could  not  see 

His  eyes,  and  yet — they  were  quite  wet, 
Blinded,  I  think!    What  should  I  be 

If  in  that  hour  I  did  not  know 
My  own  diviner  debt? 

For  God  has  made  this  world  of  ours 
Out  of  His  own  exceeding  pain, 

As  here  in  art  man's  bleeding  heart 

Slow  drop  by  drop  completes  the  strain; 

And  dreams  of  death  make  sweet  the  flowers 
Where  lovers  meet  to  part. 

Recall,  recall  my  little  room 

Where  all  the  masters  came  that  night, 

Came  just  to  hear  me,  Meyerbeer, 
Lamartine,  Balzac;  and  no  light 

But  my  two  candles  in  the  gloom; 
Though  she,  she  too  was  there, 

George  Sand.     This  music  once  unlocked 
My  heart,  she  took  the  gold  she  prized: 

Her  novel  gleams  no  richer:  dreams 
Like  mine  are  best  unanalysed: 

And  she  forgets  her  poor  bemocked 
Prince  Karol,  now,  it  seems. 

I  was  Prince  Karol;  yes,  and  Liszt 

Count  Salvator  Albani:  she 
My  Floriani— all  so  far 

Away ! — My  dreams  are  like  the  sea 
That  round  Majorca  sighed  and  kissed 

Each  softly  mirrored  star. 

0,  what  a  golden  round  of  hours 
Our  island  villa  knew:  we  two 

Alone  with  sky  and  sea,  the  sigh 

Of  waves,  the  warm  unfathomed  blue; 

With  what  a  chain  of  nights  like  flowers 
We  bound  Love,  she  and  I. 


THE  DEATH  OF  CHOPIN  61 

What  music,  what  harmonious 

Glad  triumphs  of  the  world's  desire 
Where  passion  yearns  to  God  and  burns 

Earth's  dross  out  with  its  own  pure  fire, 
Or  tolls  like  some  deep  angelus 

Through  Death's  divine  nocturnes. 

"Do  roses  in  the  moonlight  glow 
Like  this  and  this?"     What  did  she  think 

Of  him  whose  hands  at  Love's  command 
Made  Life  as  honey  o'er  the  brink 

Of  Death  drip  slow,  darkling  and  slow? 
Ah,  did  she  understand? 

She  studied  every  sob  she  heard, 

She  watched  each  dying  hope  she  found; 

And  yet  she  understood  not  one 

Poor  sorrow  there  that  like  a  wound 

Gaped,  bleeding,  pleading — for  one  word — ■ 
No?     And  the  dream  was  done. 

For  her — I  am  "wrapped  in  incense  gloom, 

In  drifting  clouds  and  golden  light;" 
Once  I  was  shod  with  fire  and  trod 

Beethoven's  path  through  storm  and  night: 
It  is  too  late  now  to  resume 

My  monologue  with  God. 

Well,  my  lost  love,  you  were  so  kind 

In  those  old  days:  ah,  yes;  you  came 
When  I  was  ill !     In  dreams  you  still 

Will  come?  (Do  roses  always  flame 
By  moonlight,  thus?)     I,  too,  grow  blind 

With  wondering  if  she  will. 

Yet,  Floriani,  what  am  I 

To  you,  though  love  was  life  to  me? 
My  life  consumed  like  some  perfumed 

Pale  altar-flame  beside  the  sea: 
You  stood  and  smiled  and  watched  it  die  I 

You,  you  whom  it  illumed, 


62  BUTTERFLIES 

Could  you  not  feed  it  with  your  love? 

Am  I  not  starving  here  and  now? 
Sing,  sing!     I'd  miss  no  smile  or  kiss — 

No  roses  in  Majorca  glow 
Like  this  and  this — so  death  may  provs 

Best — ah,  how  sweet  life  is! 


SONG 

(AFTER   THE   FRENCH   OF   ROSTAND) 

0,  many  a  lover  sighs 
Beneath  the  summer  skies 
For  black  or  hazel  eyes 

All  day. 
No  light  of  hope  can  mar 
My  whiter  brighter  star; 
I  love  a  Princess  far 

Away. 

Now  you  that  haste  to  meet 
Your  love's  returning  feet 
Must  plead  for  every  sweet 

Caress; 
But,  day  and  night  and  day, 
Without  a  prayer  to  pray, 
I  love  my  far  away 

Princess. 


BUTTERFLIES 

Sun-child,  as  you  watched  the  rain 

Beat  the  pane, 
Saw  the  garden  of  your  dreams 
Where  the  clove  carnation  grows 
And  the  rose 
Veiled  with  shimmering  shades  and  gleams, 


BUTTERFLIES  63 

Mirrored  colours,  mystic  gleams, 

Fairy  dreams, 
Drifting  in  your  radiant  eyes 
Half  in  earnest  asked,  that  day, 

Half  in  play, 
Where  were  all  the  butterflies? 

Where  were  all  the  butterflies 

When  the  skies 
Clouded  and  their  bowers  of  clover 
Bowed  beneath  the  golden  shower? 

Every  flower 
Shook  and  the  rose  was  brimming  over. 

Ah,  the  dog-rose  trembling  over 

Thyme  and  clover, 
How  it  glitters  in  the  sun, 
Now  the  hare-bells  lift  again 

Bright  with  rain 
After  all  the  showers  are  done ! 

See,  when  all  the  showers  are  done, 

How  the  sun 
Softly  smiling  o'er  the  scene 

Bids  the  white  wings  come  and  go 

To  and  fro 
Through  the  maze  of  gold  and  green. 

Magic  webs  of  gold  and  green 

Rainbow  sheen 
Mesh  the  maze  of  flower  and  fern, 
Cuckoo-grass  and  meadow-sweet, 

And  the  wheat 
Where  the  crimson  j:>oppies  burn. 

Ay;  and  where  the  poppies  burn, 

They  return 
All  across  the  dreamy  downs, 
Little  wings  that  flutter  and  beat 
O'er  the  sweet 
Bluffs  the  purple  clover  crowns. 


64  BUTTERFLIES 

Where  the  fairy  clover  crowns 

Dreamy  downs, 
And  amidst  the  golden  grass 
Buttercups  and  daisies  blow 

To  and  fro 
When  the  shadowy  billows  pass; 

Time  has  watched  them  pause  and  pass 

Where  Love  was  ; 
Ah,  what  fairy  butterflies, 
Little  wild  incarnate  blisses, 

Coloured  kisses, 
Floating  under  azure  skies! 

Under  those  eternal  skies 

See,  they  rise: 
Mottled  wings  of  moony  sheen, 
Wings  in  whitest  star-shine  dipped, 
Orange  tipped, 
Eyed  with  black  and  veined  with  green. 

They  were  fairies  plumed  with  green 

Rainbow-sheen 
Ere  Time  bade  their  host  begone 
From  that  palace  built  of  roses 

Which  still  dozes 
In  the  greenwood  all  alone. 

In  the  greenwood  all  alone 

And  unknown: 
Now  they  roam  these  mortal  dells 

Wondering  where  that  happy  glade  is, 

Painted  Ladies, 
Admirals,  and  Tortoise-shells. 

0,  Fritillaries,  Admirals, 
Tortoise-shells; 
You,  like  fragments  of  the  skies 

Fringed  with  Autumn's  richest  hues, 
Dainty  blues 
Patterned  with  mosaic  dyes; 


BUTTERFLIES  65 

Oh,  and  you  whose  peacock  dyes 

Gleam  with  eyes; 
You,  whose  wings  of  burnished  copper 
Burn  upon  the  sunburnt  brae 

Where  all  day 
Whirrs  the  hot  and  grey  grasshopper; 

While  the  grey  grasshopper  whirrs 

In  the  furze, 
You  that  with  your  sulphur  wings 
Melt  into  the  gold  perfume 

Of  the  broom 
Where  the  linnet  sits  and  sings; 

You  that,  as  a  poet  sings, 

On  your  wings 
Image  forth  the  dreams  of  earth, 
Quickening  them  in  form  and  hue 
To  the  new 
Glory  of  a  brighter  birth ; 

You  that  bring  to  a  brighter  birth 

Dust  and  earth, 
Rapt  to  glory  on  your  wings, 
AH  transfigured  in  the  white 

Living  light 
Shed  from  out  the  soul  of  things; 

Heralds  of  the  soul  of  things, 

You  whose  wings 
Carry  heaven  through  every  glade; 
Thus  transfigured  from  the  petals 
Death  unsettles, 
Little  souls  of  leaf  and  blade; 

You  that  mimic  bud  and  blade, 

Light  and  shade; 
Tinted  souls  of  leaf  and  stone, 
Flower  and  sunny  bank  of  sand, 
Fairyland 
Calls  her  children  to  their  own; 


63       SONG  OF  THE  WOODEN-LEGGED  FIDDLER 

Calls  them  back  into  their  own 

Great  unknown; 
Where  the  harmonies  they  cull 
On  their  wings  are  made  complete 
As  they  beat 
Through  the  Gate  called  Beautiful. 


SONG  OF  THE  WOODEN-LEGGED  FIDDLER 

(PORTSMOUTH    1805) 

I  lived  in  a  cottage  adown  in  the  West 

When  I  was  a  boy,  a  boy; 
But  I  knew  no  peace  and  I  took  no  rest 
Though  the  roses  nigh  smothered  my  snug  little  nest; 

For  the  smell  of  the  sea 

Was  much  rarer  to  me, 
And  the  life  of  a  sailor  was  all  my  joy. 

Chorus. — The  life  of  a  sailor  was  all  my  joy! 

My  mother  she  wept,  and  she  begged  me  to  stay 

Anchored  for  life  to  her  apron-string, 
And  soon  she  would  want  me  to  help  with  the  hay; 
So  I  bided  her  time,  then  I  flitted  away 

On  a  night  of  delight  in  the  following  spring, 
With  a  pair  of  stout  shoon 
And  a  seafaring  tune 
And  a  bundle  and  stick  in  the  light  of  the  moon, 
Down  the  long  road 
To  Portsmouth  I  strode, 
To  fight  like  a  sailor  for  country  and  king. 

Chorus. — To  fight  like  a  sailor  for  country  and  king. 

And  now  that  my  feet  are  turned  homeward  again 

My  heart  is  still  crying  Ahoy !  Ahoy ! 
And  my  thoughts  are  still  out  on  the  Spanish  main 
A-chasing  the  frigates  of  France  and  Spain, 

For  at  heart  an  old  sailor  is  always  a  boy; 


THE  FISHER-GIRL  67 

And  his  nose  will  still  itch 
For  the  powder  and  pitch 
Till  the  days  when  he  can't  tell  t'other  from  which, 
Nor  a  grin  o'  the  guns  from  a  glint  o'  the  sea, 
Nor  a  skipper  like  Nelson  from  lubbers  like  me. 

Chorus. — Nor  a  skipper  like  Nelson  from  lubbers  like  me. 

Ay!     Now  that  I'm  old  I'm  as  bold  as  the  best, 
And  the  life  of  a  sailor  is  all  my  joy; 
Though  I've  swapped  my  leg 
For  a  wooden  peg 
And  my  head  is  as  bald  as  a  new-laid  egg, 
The  smell  of  the  sea 
Is  like  victuals  to  me, 
And  I  think  in  the  grave  I'll  be  crying  Ahoy! 
For,  though  my  old  carcass  is  ready  to  rest, 
At  heart  an  old  sailor  is  always  a  boy. 

Chorus. — At  heart  an  old  sailor  is  always  a  boy. 

THE  FISHER-GIRL 

Where  the  old  grey  churchyard  slopes  to  the  sea, 

On  the  sunny  side  of  a  mossed  headstone; 
Watching  the  wild  white  butterflies  pass 
Through  the  fairy  forests  of  grass, 
Two  little  children  with  brown  legs  bare 

Were  merrily,  merrily 
Weaving  a  wonderful  daisy-chain, 
And  chanting  the  rhyme  that  was  graven  there 

Over  and  over  and  over  again; 
While  the  warm  wind  came  and  played  with  their  hair 

And  laughed  and  was  gone 
Out,  far  out  to  the  foam-flowered  lea 
Like  an  ocean-wandering  memory. 

Eighteen  hundred  and  forty-three, 

Dan  Trevennick  was  lost  at  sea; 

And,  buried  here  at  her  husband's  side 

Lies  the  body  of  Joan,  his  bride, 

Who,  a  little  while  after  she  lost  him,  died. 


68  THE  FISHER-GIRL 

This  was  the  rhyme  that  was  graven  there, 

And  the  children  chanted  it  quietly; 
As  the  warm  wind  came  and  played  with  their  hair, 
And  rustled  the  golden  grasses  against  the  stone, 

And  laughed  and  was  gone 
To  waken  the  wild  white  flowers  of  the  sea, 
And  sing  a  song  of  the  days  that  were, 
A  song  of  memory,  gay  and  blind 
As  the  sun  on  the  graves  that  it  left  behind; 
For  this,  ah  this,  was  the  song  of  the  wind. 


She  sat  on  the  tarred  old  jetty,  with  a  sailor's  careless  ease, 
And  the  clear  waves  danced  around  her  feet  and  kissed  her 

tawny  knees; 
Her  head  was  bare,  and  her  thick  black  hair  was  coiled  behind 

a  throat 
Chiselled  as  hard  and  bright  and  bold  as  the  bow  of  a  sailing 

boat. 

II 

Her  eyes  were  blue,  and  her  jersey  was  blue  as  the  lapping, 
slapping  seas, 

And  the  rose  in  her  cheek  was  painted  red  by  the  brisk  Atlantic 
breeze; 

And  she  sat  and  waited  her  father's  craft,  while  Dan  Treven- 
nick's  eyes 

Were  sheepishly  watching  her  sunlit  smiles  and  her  soft  con- 
tented sighs. 

Ill 

For  he  thought  he  would  give  up  his  good  black  pipe  and  his 

evening  glasses  of  beer, 
And  blunder  to  chapel  on  Sundays  again  for  a  holy  Christian 

year, 
To  hold  that  foot  in  his  hard  rough  hand  and  kiss  the  least 

of  its  toes: 
Then  he  swore  at  himself  for  a  great  damned  fool;  which  he 

probably  was,  God  knows. 


THE  FISHER-GIRL  69 

IV 

Often  in  summer  twilights,  too,  he  would  sit  on  a  coil  of  rope, 
As  the  stars  came  out  in  their  twinkling  crowds  to  play  with 

wonder  and  hope, 
While  he  watched  the  side  of  her  clear-cut  face  as  she  sat  on  the 

jetty  and  fished, 
And  even  to  help  her  coil  her  line  was  more  than  he  hoped 

or  wished. 


But  once  or  twice  o'er  the  dark  green  tide  he  saw  with  a 

solemn  delight, 
Hooked  and  splashing  after  her  line,  a  flash  and  a  streak  of 

white; 
As  hand  over  hand  she  hauled  it  up,  a  great  black  conger  eel, 
For  Dan  Trevennick  to  kill  as  it  squirmed  with  its  head  beneath 

his  heel. 

VI 

And  at  last,  with  a  crash  and  a  sunset  cry  from  the  low  soft 
evening  star, 

A  shadowy  schooner  suddenly  loomed  o'er  the  dark  green  oily 
bar; 

With  fairy-like  spars  and  misty  masts  in  the  golden  dusk  of 
gloaming, 

Where  the  last  white  seamew's  wide-spread  wings  were  wist- 
fully westward  roaming; 


VII 

Then  the  song  of  the  foreign  seamen  rose  in  the  magical 

evening  air, 
Faint  and  far  away,  as  it  seemed,  but  they  knew  it  was,  ah,  so 

near; 
Far  away  as  her  heart  from  Dan's  as  he  sheepishly  drew  to 

her  side, 
And  near  as  her  heart  when  he  kissed  the  lips  of  his  newly 

promised  bride. 


70  THE  FISHER-GIRL 

VIII 

And  when  they  were  riding  away  in  the  train  on  the  night  oi 

their  honeymoon, 
What  a  whisper  tingled  against  her  cheek  as  it  blushed  like  a 

rose  in  June; 
For  she  said,  "I  am  tired  and  ready  for  bed,"  and  Dan  said, 

"So  am  I;" 
And  she  murmured,  "Are  you  tired,  too,  poor  Dan?"  and  he 

answered  her,  "No,  dear,  why?" 


IX 

It  was  never  a  problem-play,  at  least,  and  the  end  of  it  all  is 

this; 
They  were  drowned  in  the  bliss  of  their  ignorance  and  buried 

the  rest  in  a  kiss; 
And  they  loved  one  another  their  whole  life  long,  as  lovers 

will  often  do; 
For  it  never  was  only  the  fairy-tales  that  rang  so  royally  true. 


X 

The  rose  in  her  cheek  was  painted  red   by  the  brisk  Atlantic 

breeze; 
Her  eyes  were  blue,  and  her  jersey  was  blue  as  the  lapping,  slapping 

seas; 
Her  head  was  bare,  and  her  thick  black  hair  was  coiled  behind  a 

throat 
Chiselled  as  hard  and  bright  and  bold  as  the  bow  of  a  sailing 

boat. 


XI 

Eighteen  hundred  and  forty-three, 

Dan  Trevennick  was  lost  at  sea; 

And,  buried  here  at  her  husband's  side 

Lies  the  body  of  Joan,  his  bride, 

Who,  a  little  while  after  she  lost  him,  died. 


A  SONG  OF  TWO  BURDENS  71 


A  SONG  OF  TWO  BURDENS 

The  round  brown  sails  were  reefed  and  struggling  home 
Over  the  glitter  and  gloom  of  the  angry  deep : 

Dark  in  the  cottage  she  sang,  "Soon,  soon,  he  will  come, 
Dreamikin,  Drowsy-head,  sleep,  my  little  one,  sleep." 

Over  the  glitter  and  gloom  of  the  angry  deep 

Was  it  only  a  dream  or  a  shadow  that  vanished  away? 

"Lullaby,  little  one,  sleep,  my  little  one,  sleep." 

She  sang  in  a  dream  as  the  shadows  covered  the  day. 

Was  it  only  a  sail  or  a  shadow  that  vanished  away? 

The  boats  come  home:  there  is  one  that  will  never  return ; 
But  she  sang  in  a  dream  as  the  shadows  buried  the  day; 

And  she  set  the  supper  and  begged  the  fire  to  burn. 

The  boats  come  home;  but  one  will  never  return; 

And  a  strangled  cry  went  up  from  the  struggling  sea. 
She  sank  on  her  knees  and  begged  the  fire  to  burn, 

"Burn,  oh  burn,  for  my  love  is  coming  to  me!" 

A  strangled  cry  went  up  from  the  struggling  sea, 

A  cry  where  the  ghastly  surf  to  the  moon-dawn  rolled; 

" Burn,  oh  burn;  for  my  love  is  coming  to  me, 

His  hands  will  be  scarred  with  the  ropes  and  starved  with 
the  cold." 

A  strangled  cry  where  the  foam  in  the  moonlight  rolled, 
A  bitter  cry  from  the  heart  of  the  ghastly  sea; 

"  His  hands  will  be  frozen,  the  night  is  dark  and  cold, 
Burn,  oh  burn,  for  my  love  is  coming  to  me." 

One  cry  to  God  from  the  soul  of  the  shuddering  sea, 
One  moment  of  stifling  lips  and  struggling  hands; 

"  Burn,  oh  burn;  for  my  love  is  coming  to  me; 
And  oh,  I  think  the  little  one  understands." 

One  moment  of  stifling  lips  and  struggling  hands, 
Then  only  the  glitter  and  gloom  of  the  angry  deep; 

"And  oh,  I  think  the  little  one  understands; 

Dreamikin,  Drowsy-head,  sleep,  my  little  one,  sleep," 


72  EARTH-BOUND 

EARTH-BOUND 

Ghosts?    Love  would  fain  believe, 

Earth  being  so  fair,  the  dead  might  wish  to  return? 

Is  it  so  strange  if,  even  in  heaven,  they  yearn 
For  the  May-time  and  the  dreams  it  used  to  give? 

Through  dark  abysms  of  Space, 

From  strange  new  spheres  where  Death  has  called  them 
now 

May  they  not,  with  a  crown  on  every  brow, 
Still  cry  to  the  loved  earth's  lost  familiar  face? 

We  two,  love,  we  should  come 

Seeking  a  little  refuge  from  the  light 

Of  the  blinding  terrible  star-sown  Infinite, 
Seeking  some  sheltering  roof,  some  four-walled  home, 

From  that  too  high,  too  wide 

Communion  with  the  universe  and  God, 
How  glad  to  creep  back  to  some  lane  we  trod 

Hemmed  in  with  a  hawthorn  hedge  on  either  side. 

Fresh  from  death's  boundless  birth, 

How  fond  the  circled  vision  of  the  sea 

Would  seem  to  souls  tired  of  Infinity, 
How  kind  the  soft  blue  boundaries  of  earth, 

How  rich  the  nodding  spray 

Of  pale  green  leaves  that  made  the  sapphire  deep 
A  background  to  the  dreams  of  that  brief  sleep 

We  called  our  life  when  heaven  was  far  away. 

How  strange  would  be  the  sight 

Of  the  little  towns  and  twisted  streets  again, 
Where  all  the  hunying  works  and  ways  of  men 

Would  seem  a  children's  game  for  our  delight. 


EARTH-BOUND  73 

What  boundless  heaven  could  give 

This  joy  in  the  strait  austere  restraints  of  earth, 
Whereof  the  dead  have  felt  the  immortal  dearth 

Who  look  upon  God's  face  and  cannot  live? 

Our  ghosts  would  clutch  at  flowers 

As  drowning  men  at  straws,  for  fear  the  sea 
Should  sweep  them  back  to  God's  Eternity, 

Still  clinging  to  the  day  that  once  was  ours. 

No  more  with  fevered  brain 

Plunging  across  the  gulfs  of  Space  and  Time 
Would  we  revisit  this  our  earthly  clime 

We  two,  if  we  could  ever  come  again; 

Not  as  we  came  of  old, 

But  reverencing  the  flesh  we  now  despise 

And  gazing  out  with  consecrated  eyes, 
Each  of  us  glad  of  the  other's  hand  to  hold. 

So  we  should  wander  nigh 

Our  mortal  home,  and  see  its  little  roof 

Keeping  the  deep  eternal  night  aloof 
And  yielding  us  a  refuge  from  the  sky. 

We  should  steal  in,  once  more, 

Under  the  cloudy  lilac  at  the  gate, 

Up  the  walled  garden,  then  with  hearts  elate 

Forget  the  stars  and  close  our  cottage  door. 

Oh  then,  as  children  use 

To  make  themselves  a  little  hiding-place, 
We  would  rejoice  in  narrowness  of  space, 

And  God  should  give  us  nothing  more  to  lose. 

How  good  it  all  would  seem 

To  souls  that  from  the  £eonian  ebb  and  flow 
Came  down  to  hear  once  more  the  to  and  fro 

Swing  o'  the  clock  dictate  its  hourly  theme. 


74  THE  OPTIMIST 

How  dear  the  strange  recall 

From  vast  antiphonies  of  joy  and  pain 
Beyond  the  grave,  to  these  old  books  again, 

That  cosy  lamp,  those  pictures  on  the  wall. 

Home!    Home!    The  old  desire! 

We  would  shut  out  the  innumerable  skies, 
Draw  close  the  curtains,  then  with  patient  eyes 
Bend  o'er  the  hearth;  laugh  at  our  memories, 

Or  watch  them  crumbling  in  the  crimson  fire. 


ART,  THE  HERALD 

"The  voice  of  one  crying  in  the  wilderness' 


Beyond;  beyond;  and  yet  again  beyond! 
What  went  ye  out  to  seek,  oh  foolish-fond? 

Is  not  the  heart  of  all  things  here  and  now? 
Is  not  the  circle  infinite,  and  the  centre 
Everywhere,  if  ye  would  but  hear  and  enter? 

Come;  the  porch  bends  and  the  great  pillars  bow; 


II 

Come;  come  and  see  the  secret  of  the  sun; 

The  sorrow  that  holds  the  warring  worlds  in  one; 

The  pain  that  holds  Eternity  in  an  hour; 
One  God  in  every  seed  self-sacrificed, 
One  star-eyed,  star-crowned  universal  Christ, 

Re-crucified  in  every  wayside  flower. 


THE  OPTIMIST 

Teach  me  to  live  and  to  forgive 

The  death  that  all  must  die 
Who  pass  in  slumber  through  this  heaven 

Of  earth  and  sea  and  sky; 


THE  OPTIMIST  75 

Who  live  by  grace  of  Time  and  Space 

At  which  their  peace  is  priced; 
And  cast  their  lots  upon  the  robe 

That  wraps  the  cosmic  Christ; 

Who  cannot  see  the  world-wide  Tree 

Where  Love  lies  bleeding  still; 
This  universal  cross  of  God 

Our  star-crowned  Igdrasil. 

Teach  me  to  live;  I  do  not  ask 

For  length  of  earthly  days, 
Or  that  my  heaven-appointed  task 

Should  fall  in  pleasant  ways; 

If  in  this  hour  of  warmth  and  light 

The  last  great  knell  were  knolled; 
If  Death  should  close  mine  eyes  to-night 

And  all  the  tale  be  told; 

While  I  have  lips  to  speak  or  sing 

And  power  to  draw  this  breath, 
Shall  I  not  praise  my  Lord  and  King 

Above  all  else,  for  death? 

When  on  a  golden  eve  he  drove 

His  keenest  sorrow  deep 
Deep  in  my  heart,  and  called  it  love; 

I  did  not  wince  or  weep. 

A  wild  Hosanna  shook  the  world 

And  wakened  all  the  sky, 
As  through  a  white  and  burning  light 

Her  passionate  face  went  by. 

When  on  a  golden  dawn  he  called 

My  best  beloved  away, 
I  did  not  shrink  or  stand  appalled 

Before  the  hopeless  day. 


76  A  POST-IMPRESSION 

The  joy  of  that  triumphant  dearth 
And  anguish  cannot  die; 

The  joj'-  that  casts  aside  this  earth 
For  immortality. 


I  would  not  change  one  word  of  doom 

Upon  the  dreadful  scroll, 
That  gave  her  body  to  the  tomb 

And  freed  her  fettered  soul. 


For  now  each  idle  breeze  can  bring 

The  kiss  I  never  seek; 
The  nightingale  has  heard  her  sing, 

The  rose  caressed  her  cheek. 


And  every  pang  of  every  grief 
That  ruled  my  soul  an  hour, 

Has  given  new  splendours  to  the  leaf, 
New  glories  to  the  flower; 


And  melting  earth  into  the  heaven 
Whose  inmost  heart  is  pain, 

Has  drawn  the  veils  apart  and  given 
Her  soul  to  mine  again. 


A  POST-IMPRESSION 
I 

He  sat  with  his  foolish  mouth  agape  at  the  golden  glare  of 
the  sea, 
And  his  wizened  and  wintry  flaxen  locks  fluttered  around  his 
ears, 
And  his  foolish  infinite  eyes  were  full  of  the  sky's  own  glitter 
and  glee, 
As  he  dandled  an  old  Dutch  Doll  on  his  knee  and  sang  the 
song  of  the  spheres. 


A  POST-IMPRESSION  77 


II 


Blue  and  red  and  yellow  and  green  they  are  melting  away  in 

the  white; 
Key!  but  the  wise  old  world  was  wrong  and  my  idiot  heart  was 

right; 
Yes;  and  the  merry-go-round  of  the  stars  rolls  to  my  cracked 

old  tune, 
Hey!  diddle,  diddle,  the  cat  and  the  fiddle,  the  cow  jumped  over 

the  moon. 

Ill 

Then  he  cradled  his  doll  on  his  crooning  heart  and  cried  as  a 
sea-bird  cries; 
And  the   hot  sun  reeled  like  a  drunken   god  through  the 
violent  violet  vault: 
And  the  hillside  cottage  that  danced  to  the  deep  debauch  of 
the  perfumed  skies 
Grew  palsied  and  white  in  the  purple  heath  as  a  pillar  of 
Dead  Sea  salt. 

IV 

There  were  three  gaunt  sun-flowers  nigh  his  chair:  they  were 

yellow  as  death  and  tall; 
And  they  threw  their  sharp  blue  shadowy  stars  on  the  blind 

white  wizard  wall; 
And  they  nodded  their  heads  to  the  weird  old  hymn  that 

daunted  the  light  of  the  noon, 
Hey!  diddle,  diddle,  the  cat  and  the  fiddle,  the  cow  jumped  over 

the  moon. 


The  little  dog  laughed  and  leered  with  the  white  of  his  eye  a3 
he  sidled  away 
To  stare  at  the  dwarfish  hunchback  waves  that  crawled  to 
the  foot  of  the  hill, 
For  his  master's  infinite  mind  was  wide  to  the  wealth  of  the 
night  and  the  day; 
The  walls  were  down:  it  was  one  with  the  Deep  that  only 
a  God  can  fill. 


78  A  POST-IMPRESSION 

VI 

Then  a  tiny  maiden  of  ten  sweet  summers  arrived  with  a 

song  and  a  smile, 
And  she  swung  on  the  elfin  garden-gate  and  sung  to  the  sea 

for  a  while, 
And  a  phantom  face  went  weeping  by  and  a  ghost  began  to 

croon 
Hey!  diddle,  diddle,  the  cat  and  the  fiddle,  the  cow  jumped  over 

the  moon. 

VII 

And  she  followed  a  butterfly  up  to  his  chair;  and  the  moon-calf 
caught  at  her  hand 
And  stared  at  her  wide  blue  startled  eyes  and  muttered, 
"My  dear,  I  have  been, 
In  fact,  I  am  there  at  this  moment,  I  think,  in  a  wonderful 
fairy-land:" 
And  he  bent  and  he  whispered  it  low  in  her  ear — "I  know 
why  the  grass  is  green. 

VIII 

"I  know  why  the  daisy  is  white,  my  dear,  I  know  why  the 

seas  are  blue; 
I  know  that  the  world  is  a  dream,  my  dear,  and  I  know  that  the 

dream  is  true; 
I  know  why  the  rose  and  the  toad-stool  grow,  as  a  curse  and 

a  crimson  boon, 
Hey!  diddle,  diddle,  the  cat  and  the  fiddle,  the  cow  jumped  over 

the  moon. 

IX 

"If  I  gaze  at  a  rose,  do  you  know,  it  grows  till  it  overshadows 
the  earth, 
Like  a  wonderful  Tree  of  Knowledge,  my  dear,  the  Tree 
of  our  evil  and  good ; 
But  I  dare  not  tell  you  the  terrible  vision  that  gave  the  toad- 
stool birth, 
The  dream  of  a  heart  that  breaks,  my  dear,  and  a  Tree 
that  is  bitter  with  blood. 


A  POST-IMPRESSION  79 

X 

"Oh,  Love  may  wander  wide  as  the  wind  that  blows  from 

sea  to  sea, 
But  a  wooden  dream,  for  me,  my  dear,  and  a  painted  memo^; 
For  the  God  that  has  bidden  the  toad-stool  grow  has  writ 

in  his  cosmic  rune, 
Hey!  diddle,  diddle,  the  cat  and  the  fiddle,  the  cow  jumped  over 

the  moon." 

XI 

Then  he  stared  at  the  child  and  he  laughed  aloud,  and  she  sud- 
denly screamed  and  fled, 
As  he  dreamed  of  enticing  her  out  thro'  the  ferns  to  a  quarry 
that  gapped  the  hill, 
To  hurtle  her  down  and  grin  as  her  gold  hair  scattered  around 
her  head 
Far,  far  below,  like  a  sunflower  disk,  so  crimson-spattered 
and  still. 

XII 

"Ah,  hush!"  he  cried;  and  his  dark  old  eyes  were  wet  with  a 

sacred  love 
As  he  kissed  the  wooden  face  of  his  doll  and  winked  at  the 

skies  above, 
"I  know,  I  know  why  the  toad-stools  grow,  and  the  rest  of  the 

world  will,  soon; 
Hey!  diddle,  diddle,  the  cat  and  the  fiddle,  the  cow  jumped  over 

the  moon." 

XIII 

Blue  and  red  and  yellow  and  green  they  are  all  mixed  up  in  the 

white; 
Hey!  but  the  wise  old  world  was  wrong  and  my  idiot  heart  was 

right; 
Yes;   and  the  merry-go-round  of  the  stars  rolls  to  my  cracked 

old  tune, 
Hey!  diddle,  diddle,  the  cat  and  the  fiddle,  the  cow  jumped  over 

the  moon." 


80  THE  BARREL-ORGAN 

THE  BARREL-ORGAN 

There's  a  barrel-organ  carolling  across  a  golden  street 

In  the  Cfty  as  the  sun  sinks  low; 
And  the  music's  not  immortal;  but  the  world  has  made  it 
sweet 

And  fulfilled  it  with  the  sunset  glow; 
And  it  pulses  through  the  pleasures  of  the  City  and  the  pain 

That  surround  the  singing  organ  like  a  large  eternal  light ; 
And  they've  given  it  a  glory  and  a  part  to  play  again 

In  the  Symphony  that  rules  the  day  and  night. 

And  now  it's  marching  onward  through  the  realms  of  old 
romance, 

And  trolling  out  a  fond  familiar  tune, 
And  now  it's  roaring  cannon  down  to  fight  the  King  of  France, 

And  now  it's  prattling  softly  to  the  moon, 
And  all  around  the  organ  there's  a  sea  without  a  shore 

Of  human  joys  and  wonders  and  regrets; 
To  remember  and  to  recompense  the  music  evermore 

For  what  the  cold  machinery  forgets.   .    .    . 

Yes;  as  the  music  changes, 

Like  a  prismatic  glass, 
It  takes  the  light  and  ranges 

Through  all  the  moods  that  pass; 
Dissects  the  common  carnival 

Of  passions  and  regrets, 
And  gives  the  world  a  glimpse  of  all 

The  colours  it  forgets. 

And  there  La  Traviata  sighs 

Another  sadder  song; 
And  there  //  Trovatore  cries 

A  tale  of  deeper  wrong; 
And  bolder  knights  to  battle  go 

With  sword  and  shield  and  lance, 
Than  ever  here  on  earth  below 

Have  whirled  into — a  dance! — 


THE  BARREL-ORGAN  81 

Go  down  to  Kew  in  lilac-time,  in  lilac-time,  in  lilac-time; 

Go  down  to  Kew  in  lilac-time  (it  isn't  far  from  London!) 
And  you  shall  wander  hand  in  hand  with  love  in  summer's 
wonderland ; 

Go  down  to  Kew  in  lilac-time  (it  isn't  far  from  London:-' 

The  cherry-trees  are  seas  of  bloom  and  soft  perfume  and 
sweet  perfume, 
The  cherry-trees  are  seas  of  bloom  (and  oh,  so  near  to 
London!) 
And  there  they  say,  when  dawn  is  high  and  all  the  world's 
a  blaze  of  sky 
The  cuckoo,  though  he's  very  shy,  will  sing  a  song  for  London. 

The  Dorian  nightingale  is  rare  and  yet  they  say  you'll  hear 
him  there 

At  Kew,  at  Kew  in  lilac-time  (and  oh,  so  near  to  London !) 
The  linnet  and  the  throstle,  too,  and  after  dark  the  long  halloo 

And  golden-eyed  tu-whit,  tu-whoo  of  owls  that  ogle  London. 

For  Noah  hardly  knew  a  bird  of  any  kind  that  isn't  heard 

At  Kew,  at  Kew  in  lilac-time  (and  oh,  so  near  to  London!) 
And  when  the  rose  begins  to  pout  and  all  the  chestnut  spires 
are  out 
You'll  hear  the  rest  without  a  doubt,  all  chorussing  for 
London : — 

Come  down  to  Kew  in  lilac-time,  in  lilac-time,  in  lilac-time; 

Come  down  to  Kew  in  lilac-time  (it  isn't  far  from  London!) 
And  you  shall  wander  hand  in  hand  with  love  in  summer's 
wonderland; 

Come  down  to  Kew  in  lilac-time  {it  isn't  far  from  London!) 

And  then  the  troubadour  begins  to  thrill  the  golden  street, 

In  the  City  as  the  sun  sinks  low; 
And  in  all  the  gaudy  busses  there  are  scores  of  weary  feet 
Marking  time,  sweet  time,  with  a  dull  mechanic  beat, 
And  a  thousand  hearts  are  plunging  to  a  love  they'll  never 

meet, 
Through  the  meadows  of  the  sunset,  through  the  poppies  and 
the  wheat, 
In  the  land  where  the  dead  dreams  go. 

6 


82  THE  BARREL-ORGAN 

Verdi,  Verdi,  when  you  wrote  II  Trovatore  did  you  dream 

Of  the  City  when  the  sun  sinks  low, 
Of  the  organ  and  the  monkey  and  the  many-coloured  stream 
On  the  Piccadilly  pavement,  of  the  myriad  eyes  that  seem 
To  be  litten  for  a  moment  with  a  wild  Italian  gleam 
As  A  che  la  morte  parodies  the  world's  eternal  theme 

And  pulses  with  the  sunset-glow. 


There's  a  thief,  perhaps,  that  listens  with  a  face  of  frozen 

stone 
In  the  City  as  the  sun  sinks  low; 
There's  a  portly  man  of  business  with  a  balance  of  his  own, 
There's  a  clerk  and  there's  a  butcher  of  a  soft  reposeful  tone. 
And  they're  all  of  them  returning  to  the  heavens  they  have 

known : 
They  are  crammed  and  jammed  in  busses  and — they're  each 

of  them  alone 
In  the  land  where  the  dead  dreams  go. 


There's  a  very  modish  woman  and  her  smile  is  very  bland 

In  the  City  as  the  sun  sinks  low; 
And  her  hansom  jingles  onward,  but  her  little  jewelled  hand 
Is  clenched  a  little  tighter  and  she  cannot  understand 
What  she  wants  or  why  she  wanders  to  that  undiscovered  land, 
For  the  parties  there  are  not  at  all  the  sort  of  thing  she  planned, 

In  the  land  where  the  dead  dreams  go. 


There's  a  rowing  man  that  listens  and  his  heart  is  crying 

out 
In  the  City  as  the  sun  sinks  low; 
For  the  barge,  the  eight,  the  Isis,  and  the  coach's  whoop 

and  shout, 
For  the  minute-gun,  the  counting  and  the  long  dishevelled 

rout, 
For  the  howl  along  the  tow-path  and  a  fate  that's  still  in 

doubt, 
For  a  roughened  oar  to  handle  and  a  race  to  think  about 
In  the  land  where  the  dead  dreams  go. 


THE  BARREL-ORGAN  83 

There's  a  labourer  that  listens  to  the  voices  of  the  dead 

In  the  City  as  the  sun  sinks  low; 
And  his  hand  begins  to  tremble  and  his  face  to  smoulder  red 
As  he  sees  a  loafer  watching  him  and — there  he  turns  his  head 
And  stares  into  the  sunset  where  his  April  love  is  fled, 
For  he  hears  her  softly  singing  and  his  lonely  soul  is  led 

Through  the  land  where  the  dead  dreams  go. 

There's  an  old  and  haggard  demi-rep,  it's  ringing  in  her  ears, 

In  the  City  as  the  sun  sinks  low; 
With  the  wild  and  empty  sorrow  of  the  love  that  blights  and 

sears, 
Oh,  and  if  she  hurries  onward,  then  be  sure,  be  sure  she  hears, 
Hears  and  bears  the  bitter  burden  of  the  unforgotten  years, 
And  her  laugh's  a  little  harsher  and  her  eyes  are  brimmed  with 
tears 
For  the  land  where  the  dead  dreams  go. 

There's  a  barrel-organ  carolling  across  a  golden  street 

In  the  City  as  the  sun  sinks  low; 
Though  the  music's  only  Verdi  there's  a  world  to  make  it 

sweet 
Just  as  yonder  yellow  sunset  where  the  earth  and  heaven 

meet 
Mellows  all  the  sooty  City!     Hark,  a  hundred  thousand  feet 
Are  marching  on  to  glory  through  the  poppies  and  the  wheat 
In  the  land  where  the  dead  dreams  go. 

So  it's  Jeremiah,  Jeremiah, 

What  have  you  to  say 
When  you  meet  the  garland  girls 

Tripping  on  their  way? 

All  around  my  gala  hat 

I  wear  a  wreath  of  roses 
(A  long  and  lonely  year  it  is 

I've  waited  for  the  May!) 
If  any  one  should  ask  you, 

The  reason  why  I  wear  it  is — 
My  own  love,  my  true  love 

Is  coming  home  to-day. 


84  THE  BARREL-ORGAN 

And  it's  buy  a  bunch  of  violets  for  the  lady 

(It's  lilac-time  in  London;  it's  lilac-time  in  London!) 

Buy  a  bunch  of  violets  for  the  lady 
While  the  sky  burns  blue  above: 

On  the  other  side  the  street  you'll  find  it  shady 

(It's  lilac-time  in  London;  it's  lilac-time  in  London!) 

But  buy  a  bunch  of  violets  for  the  lady, 
And  tell  her  she's  your  own  true  love. 

There's  a  barrel-organ  carolling  across  a  golden  street 

In  the  City  as  the  sun  sinks  glittering  and  slow; 
And  the  music's  not  immortal;  but  the  world  has  made  it 

sweet 
And  enriched  it  with  the  harmonies  that  make  a  song  complete 
In  the  deeper  heavens  of  music  where  the  night  and  morning 
meet, 

As  it  dies  into  the  sunset-glow; 
And  it  pulses  through  the  pleasures  of  the  City  and  the  pain 

That  surround  the  singing  organ  like  a  large  eternal  light, 
And  they've  given  it  a  glory  and  a  part  to  play  again 

In  the  Symphony  that  rules  the  day  and  night. 

And  there,  as  the  music  changes, 

The  song  runs  round  again. 
Once  more  it  turns  and  ranges 

Through  all  its  joy  and  pain, 
Dissects  the  common  carnival 

Of  passions  and  regrets; 
And  the  wheeling  world  remembers  all 

The  wheeling  song  forgets. 

Once  more  La  Traviata  sighs 

Another  sadder  song: 
Once  more  II  Trovatore  cries 

A  tale  of  deeper  wrong; 
Once  more  the  knights  to  battle  go 

With  sword  and  shield  and  lance 
Till  once,  once  more,  the  shattered  foe 

Has  whirled  into — a  dance! 


THE  LITANY  OF  WAR  85 

Come  down  to  Kew  in  lilac-time,  in  lilac-time,  in  lilac-time; 

Come  dovm  to  Kew  in  lilac-time  {it  isn't  far  from  London!) 
And  you  shall  wander  hand  in  hand  with  love  in  summer's 
wonderland; 

Come  down  to  Kew  in  lilac-time  (it  isn't  far  from  London!) 

THE  LITANY  OF  WAR 

Sandalphon,  whose  white  wings  to  heaven  upbear 

The  weight  of  human  prayer, 
Stood  silent  in  the  still  eternal  Light 

Of  God,  one  dreadful  night. 
His  wings  were  clogged  with  blood  and  foul  with  mire, 

His  body  seared  with  fire. 
"Hast  thou  no  word  for  Me?"  the  Master  said. 

The  angel  sank  his  head : 

"Word  from  the  nations  of  the  East  and  West," 

He  moaned,  "that  blood  is  best. 
The  patriot  prayers  of  either  half  of  earth, 

Hear  Thou,  and  judge  their  worth. 
Out  of  the  obscene  seas  of  slaughter,  hear, 

First,  the  first  nation's  prayer: 
'0  God,  deliver  Thy  people.    Let  Thy  sword 

Destroy  our  enemies,  Lord!' 

Pure  as  the  first,  as  passionate  in  trust 

That  their  own  cause  is  just; 
Puppets  as  fond  in  those  dark  hands  of  greed; 

As  fervent  in  their  creed; 
As  blindly  moved,  as  utterly  betrayed, 

As  urgent  for  Thine  aid; 
Out  of  the  obscene  seas  of  slaughter,  hear 

The  second  nation's  prayer: 
'  0  God,  deliver  Thy  people.    Let  Thy  sword 

Destroy  our  enemies,  Lord.' 

Over  their  slaughtered  children,  one  great  cry 

From  either  enemy! 
From  either  host,  thigh-deep  in  filth  and  shame, 

One  prayer,  one  and  the  same; 


86  THE  ORIGIN  OF  LIFE 

Out  of  the  obscene  seas  of  slaughter,  hear, 
From  East  and  West,  one  prayer: 

'  0  God,  deliver  Thy  people.  Let  Thy  sword 
Destroy  our  enemies,  Lord.' " 

Then,  on  the  Cross  of  His  creative  pain, 

God  bowed  His  head  again. 
Then,  East  and  West,  over  all  seas  and  lands, 

Out-stretched  His  pierced  hands. 
"And  yet,"  Sandalphon  whispered,  "men  deny 

The  Eternal  Calvary." 

THE  ORIGIN  OF  LIFE 

[Written  in  answer  to  certain  scientific  pronouncements] 

I 

In  the  beginning? — Slowly  grope  we  back 

Along  the  narrowing  track, 
Back  to  the  deserts  of  the  world's  pale  prime, 

The  mire,  the  clay,  the  slime; 
And  then  .    .    .  what  then?    Surely  to  something  less; 

Back,  back,  to  Nothingness! 

II 

You  dare  not  halt  upon  that  dwindling  way! 

There  is  no  gulf  to  stay 
Your  footsteps  to  the  last.     Go  back  you  must! 

Far,  far  below  the  dust, 
Descend,  descend !     Grade  by  dissolving  grade, 

We  follow,  unafraid! 
Dissolve,  dissolve  this  moving  world  of  men 

Into  thin  air — and  then? 

Ill 

O  pioneers,  O  warriors  of  the  Light, 

In  that  abysmal  night, 
Will  you  have  courage,  then,  to  rise  and  tell 

Earth  of  this  miracle? 
Will  you  have  courage,  then,  to  bow  the  head, 

And  say,  when  all  is  said — ■ 


THE  ORIGIN  OF  LIFE  87 

"Out  of  this  Nothingness  arose  our  thought! 

This  blank  abysmal  Nought 
Woke,  and  brought  forth  that  lighted  City  street, 

Those  towers,  that  armoured  fleet?"  .    .   . 


IV 

When  you  have  seen  those  vacant  primal  skies 

Beyond  the  centuries. 
Watched  the  pale  mists  across  their  darkness  flow, 

As  in  a  lantern-show, 
Weaving,  by  merest  "chance,"  out  of  thin  air, 

Pageants  of  praise  and  prayer; 
Watched  the  great  hills  like  clouds  arise  and  set, 

And  one — named  Olivet; 
When  you  have  seen,  as  a  shadow  passing  away, 

One  child  clasp  hands  and  pray; 
When  you  have  seen  emerge  from  that  dark  mire 

One  martyr,  ringed  with  fire; 
Or,  from  that  Nothingness,  by  special  grace, 

One  woman's  love-lit  face, 


Will  you  have  courage,  then,  to  front  that  law 

(From  which  your  sophists  draw 
Their  only  right  to  flout  one  human  creed) 

That  nothing  can  proceed- 
Not  even  thought,  not  even  love — from  less 

Than  its  own  nothingness? 
The  law  is  yours!     But  dare  you  waive  your  pride, 

And  kneel  where  you  denied? 
The  law  is  yours!     Dare  you  re-kindle,  then, 

One  faith  for  faithless  men, 
And  say  you  found,  on  that  dark  road  you  trod, 
In  the  beginning — GOD? 


88  THE  LAST  BATTLE 

THE  LAST  BATTLE 

Kings  of  the  earth,  Kings  of  the  earth,  the  trumpet  rings 
for  warning, 
And  like  the  golden  swords  that  ray  from  out  the  setting 
sun 
The  shout  goes  out  of  the  trumpet  mouth  across  the  hills  of 
morning, 
Wake;  for  the  last  great  battle  dawns  and  all  the  wars  are 
done. 

Now  all  the  plains  of  Europe  smoke  with  marching  hooves  of 
thunder, 
And  through  each  ragged  mountain-gorge  the  guns  begin  to 
gleam; 
And  round  a  hundred   cities  where  the  women  watch  and 
wonder, 
The  tramp  of  passing  armies  aches  and  faints  into  a  dream. 

The  King  of  Ind  is  drawing  nigh:  a  hundred  leagues  are 
clouded 
Along  his  loud  earth-shaking  march  from  east  to  western 
sea: 
The  King  o'  the  Setting  Sun  is  here  and  all  the  seas  are 
shrouded 
With  sails  that  carry  half  the  world  to  front  Eternity. 


Soon  shall  the  darkness  roll  around  the  grappling  of  the  nations, 
A  darkness  lit  with  deadly  gleams  of  blood  and  steel  and  fire; 

Soon  shall  the  last  great  peean  of  earth's  war-worn  generations 
Roar  through  the  thunder-clouded  air  round  War's  red 
funeral  pyre. 

But  here  defeat  and  victory  are  both  allied  with  heaven, 
The  enfolding  sky  makes  every  foe  the  centre  of  her  dome, 

Each  fights  for  God  and  his  own  right,  and  unto  each  is  given 
The  right  to  find  the  heart  of  heaven  where'er  he  finds 
his  home. 


THE  PARADOX  89 

O,  who  shall  win,  and  who  shall  lose,  and  who  shall  take  the 

glory 

Here  at  the  meeting  of  the  roads,  where  every  cause  is  right? 

0,  who  shall  live,  and  who  shall  die,  and  who  shall  tell  the 

story? 

Each  strikes  for  faith  and  fatherland  in  that  immortal  fight. 

High  on  the  grey  old  hills  of  Time  the  last  immortal  rally, 
'Under  the  storm  of  the  last  great  tattered  flag,  shall  laugh 
to  see 

The  blood  of  Armageddon  roll  from  every  smoking  valley, 
Shall  laugh  aloud,  then  rush  on  death  for  God  and  chivalry. 

Kings  of  the  earth,  Kings  of  the  earth,  0,  which  of  you  then 
shall  inherit 
The  Kingdom,  the  Power  and  the  Glory?  for  the  world's 
old  light  grows  dim 
And  the  cry  of  you  all  goes  up  all  night  to  the  dark  enfolding 
Spirit, 
Each  of  you  fights  for  God  and  home;  but  God,  ah,  what 
of  Him? 


THE  PARADOX 

"  I  Am  that  I  Am  " 


All  that  is  broken  shall  be  mended; 

All  that  is  lost  shall  be  found; 

I  will  bind  up  every  wound 
When  that  which  is  begun  shall  be  ended. 
Not  peace  I  brought  among  you  but  a  sword 

To  divide  the  night  from  the  day, 
When  I  sent  My  worlds  forth  in  their  battle-array 

To  die  and  to  live, 

To  give  and  to  receive, 
Saith  the  Lord. 


90  THE  PARADOX 

II 

Of  old  time  they  said  none  is  good  save  our  God; 

But  ye  that  have  seen  how  the  ages  have  shrunk  from  my  rod, 

And  how  red  is  the  wine-press  wherein  at  my  bidding  they 

trod, 
Have  answered  and  said  that  with  Eden  I  fashioned  the  snake, 
That  I  mould  you  of  clay  for  a  moment,  then  mar  you  and 

break, 
And  there  is  none  evil  but  I,  the  supreme  Evil,  God. 

Lo,  I  say  unto  both,  I  am  neither; 

But  greater  than  either; 
For  meeting  and  mingling  in  Me  they  become  neither  evil  nor 

good; 
Their  cj^cle  is  rounded,  they  know  neither  hunger  nor  food, 
They  need  neither  sickle  nor  seed-time,  nor  root  nor  fruit, 

They  are  ultimate,  infinite,  absolute. 
Therefore  I  say  unto  all  that  have  sinned, 

East  and  West  and  South  and  North 

The  wings  of  my  measureless  love  go  forth 
To  cover  you  all :  they  are  free  as  the  wings  of  the  wind. 

Ill 

Consider  the  troubled  waters  of  the  sea 

Which  never  rest; 
As  the  wandering  waves  are  ye; 

Yet  assuaged  and  appeased  and  forgiven, 

As  the  seas  are  gathered  together  under  the  infinite  glory 
of  heaven, 

I  gather  you  all  to  my  breast. 
But  the  sins  and  the  creeds  and  the  sorrows  that  trouble  the 
sea 

Relapse  and  subside, 
Chiming  like  chords  in  a  world-wide  symphony 

As  they  cease  to  chide; 
For  they  break  and  they  are  broken  of  sound  and  hue, 
And  they  meet  and  they  murmur  and  they  mingle  anew, 
Interweaving,  intervolving,  like  waves:  they  have  no  stay: 
They  are  all  made  as  one  with  the  deep,  when  they  sink  and 
are  vanished  away; 


THE  PARADOX  91 

Yea,  all  is  toned  at  a  turn  of  the  tide 
To  a  calm  and  golden  harmony; 
But  I — shall  I  wonder  or  greatly  care, 

For  their  depth  or  their  height? 
Shall  it  be  more  than  a  song  in  my  sight 
How  many  wandering  waves  there  were, 
Or  how  many  colours  and  changes  of  light? 

It  is  your  eyes  that  see 
And  take  heed  of  these  things:  they  were  fashioned  for 

you,  not  for  Me. 

IV 

WJth  the  stars  and  the  clouds  I  have  clothed  Myself  here 

for  your  eyes 
To  foehold  That  which  Is.     I  have  set  forth  the  strength  of  the 

sides 
As  one  draweth  a  picture  before  you  to  make  your  hearts  wise; 
That  the  infinite  souls  I  have  fashioned  may  know  as  I  know, 
Visibly  revealed 
In  the  flowers  of  the  field, 
Yea,  declared  by  the  stars  in  their  courses,  the  tides  in  their 

flow, 
And  the  clash  of  the  world's  wide  battle  as  it  sways  to  and  fro, 
Flashing  forth  as  a  flame 
The  unnameable  Name, 
The  ineffable  Word, 
I  am  the  Lord. 


V 

I  am  the  End  to  which  the  whole  world  strives: 

Therefore  are  ye  girdled  with  a  wild  desire  and  shod 

With  sorrow;  for  among  you  all  no  soul 

Shall  ever  cease  or  sleep  or  reach  its  goal 

Of  union  and  communion  with  the  Whole, 
Or  rest  content  with  less  than  being  God. 

Still,  as  unending  asymptotes,  your  lives 
In  all  their  myriad  wandering  ways 

Approach  Me  with  the  progress  of  the  golden  days; 


92  THE  PARADOX 

Approach  Me;  for  my  love  contrives 
That  ye  should  have  the  glory  of  this 

For  ever;  yea,  that  life  should  blend 

With  life  and  only  vanish  away 

From  day  to  wider  wealthier  day, 
Like  still  increasing  spheres  of  light  that  melt  and  merge  in 

wider  spheres 
Even  as  the  infinite  years  of  the  past  melt  in  the  infinite  future 
3^ears. 

Each  new  delight  of  sense, 

Each  hope,  each  love,  each  fear, 

Widens,  relumes  and  recreates  each  sphere, 
From  a  new  ring  and  nimbus  of  pre-eminence. 
I  am  the  Sphere  without  circumference: 
I  only  and  for  ever  comprehend 
All  others  that  within  me  meet  and  blend. 

Death  is  but  the  blinding  kiss 

Of  two  finite  infinities; 

Two  finite  infinite  orbs 
The  splendour  of  the  greater  of  which  absorbs 
The  less,  though  both  like  Love  have  no  beginning  and  no  end, 

VI 

Therefore  is  Love's  own  breath 
Like  Knowledge,  a  continual  death; 
And  all  his  laughter  and  kisses  and  tears, 

And  woven  wiles  of  peace  and  strife, 
That  ever  widen  thus  j^our  temporal  spheres, 
Are  making  of  the  memory  of  your  former  years 

A  very  death  in  life. 

VII 

I  am  that  I  am; 

Ye  are  evil  and  good; 
With  colour  and  glory  and  story  and  song  ye  are  fed  as  with 
food: 

The  cold  and  the  heat, 

The  bitter  and  the  sweet, 
The  calm  and  the  tempest  fulfil  my  Word ; 
Yet  will  ye  complain  of  my  two-edged  sword 


THE  PARADOX  93 

That  has  fashioned  the  finite  and  mortal  and  given  you  the 
sweetness  of  strife, 

The  blackness  and  whiteness, 
The  darkness  and  brightness, 
Which  sever  your  souls  from  the  formless  and  void  and  hold 
you  fast-fettered  to  life? 


VIII 

Behold  now,  is  Life  not  good? 
Yea,  is  it  not  also  much  more  than  the  food, 
More  than  the  raiment,  more  than  the  breath? 

Yet  Strife  is  its  name! 
Say,  which  will  ye  cast  out  first  from  the  furnace,  the  fuel  or  the 

flame? 
Would  ye  all  be  as  I  am;  and  know  neither  evil  ncr  good; 

neither  life;  neither  death; 
Or  mix  with  the  void  and  the  formless  till  all  were  as  one  and 
the  same? 


IX 

I  am  that  I  am;  the  Container  of  all  things:  kneel,  lift  up  your 

hands 
To  the  high  Consummation  of  good  and  of  evil  which  none 

understands; 
The  divine  Paradox,  the  ineffable  Word,  in  whose  light  the 

poor  souls  that  ye  trod 
Underfoot  as  too  vile  for  their  fellows  are  at  terrible  union  with 
God! 
Am  I  not  over  both  evil  and  good, 
The  righteous  man  and  the  shedder  of  blood? 

Shall  I  save  or  slay? 
I  am  neither  the  night  nor  the  day, 
Saith  the  Lord. 
Judge  not,  oh  ye  that  are  round  my  footstool,  judge  not,  ere 
the  hour  be  born 
That  shall  laugh  you  also  to  scorn. 


94  THE  PROGRESS  OF  LOVE 

X 

Ah,  yet  I  say  unto  all  that  have  sinned, 
East  and  West  and  South  and  North 
The  wings  of  my  measureless  love  go  forth 

To  cover  you  all :  they  are  free  as  the  wings  of  the  wind. 

XI 

But  one  thing  is  needful;  and  ye  shall  be  true 
To  yourselves  and  the  goal  and  the  God  that  ye  seek; 

Yea,  the  day  and  the  night  shall  requite  it  to  you 
If  ye  love  one  another,  if  your  love  be  not  weak. 

XII 

Since  I  sent  out  my  worlds  in  their  battle-array 

To  die  and  to  live, 

To  give  and  to  receive, 
Not  peace,  not  peace,  I  have  brought  among  you  but  a  sword, 
To  divide  the  night  from  the  day, 

Saith  the  Lord; 
Yet  all  that  is  broken  shall  be  mended, 

And  all  that  is  lost  shall  be  found, 

I  will  bind  up  every  wound, 
When  that  which  is  begun  shall  be  ended. 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  LOVE 

(a  lyrical  symphony) 


In  other  worlds  I  loved  you,  long  ago : 
Love  that  hath  no  beginning  hath  no  end. 

The  woodbine  whispers,  low  and  sweet  and  low, 

In  other  worlds  I  loved  you,  long  ago; 

The  firwoods  murmur  and  the  sea-waves  know 
The  message  that  the  setting  sun  shall  send. 

In  other  worlds  I  loved  you,  long  ago : 
Love  that  hath  no  beginning  hath  no  end. 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  LOVE  95 

II 

And  God  sighed  in  the  sunset;  and  the  sea 

Chanted  the  soft  recessional  of  Time 
Against  the  golden  shores  of  mystery; 

And  ever  as  that  long  low  change  and  chime 

With  one  slow  sob  of  molten  music  yearned 
Westward,  it  seemed  as  if  the  Love  sublime 

Almost  uttered  itself,  where  the  waves  burned 
In  little  flower-soft  flames  of  rose  and  green 
That  woke  to  seaward,  while  the  tides  returned 

Rising  and  falling,  ruffled  and  serene, 

With  all  the  mirrored  tints  of  heaven  above 
Shimmering  through  their  mystic  myriad  sheen. 

As  a  dove's  burnished  breast  throbbing  with  love 

Swells  and  subsides  to  call  her  soft-eyed  mate 
Home  through  the  rosy  gloom  of  glen  or  grove, 

So  when  the  greenwood  noon  was  growing  late 

The  sea  called  softly  through  the  waste  of  years, 
Called  to  the  star  that  still  can  consecrate 

The  holy  golden  haze  of  human  tears 

Which  tinges  every  sunset  with  our  grief 
Until  the  perfect  Paraclete  appears. 

Ah,  the  long  sigh  that  yields  the  world  relief 

Rose  and  relapsed  across  Eternity, 
Making  a  joy  of  sorrows  that  are  brief, 

As,  o'er  the  bright  enchantment  of  the  sea, 

Facing  the  towers  of  that  old  City  of  Pain 
Which  stands  upon  the  shores  of  mystery 

And  frowns  across  the  immeasurable  main, 

Venus  among  her  cloudy  sunset  flowers 
Woke;  and  earth  melted  into  heaven  again. 


96  THE  PROGRESS  OF  LOVE 

For  even  the  City's  immemorial  towers 

Were  tinted  into  secret  tone  and  time, 
Like  old  forgotten  tombs  that  age  embowers 

With  muffling  roses  and  with  mossy  rime 
Until  they  seem  no  monument  of  ours, 
But  one  more  note  in  earth's  accordant  chime. 

O  Love,  Love,  Love,  all  dreams,  desires  and  powers, 

Were  but  as  chords  of  that  ineffable  psalm; 
And  all  the  long  blue  lapse  of  summer  hours, 

And  all  the  breathing  sunset's  golden  balm 

By  that  seonian  sorrow  were  resolved 
As  dew  into  the  music's  infinite  calm, 

Through  which  the  suns  and  moons  and  stars  revolved 

According  to  the  song's  divine  decree, 
Till  Time  was  but  a  tide  of  intervolved 

And  interweaving  worlds  of  melody; 

In  other  worlds  I  loved  you,  long  ago, — 
The  angelic  citoles  fainted  o'er  the  sea; 

And  seraph  citerns  answered,  sweet  and  low, 

From  where  the  sunset  and  the  moonrise  blend, — 
In  other  worlds  I  loved  you,  long  ago; 

Love  that  hath  no  beginning  hath  no  end; 

0  Love,  Love,  Love,  the  bitter  City  of  Pain 
Bidding  the  golden  echoes  westward  wend, 

Chimed  in  accordant  undertone  again: 

Though  every  grey  old  tower  rose  like  a  tomb 
To  mock  the  glory  of  the  shoreless  main 

The}'-  could  but  strike  such  discords  as  illume 

The  music  with  strange  gleams  of  utter  light 
And  hallow  all  the  valley's  rosy  gloom. 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  LOVE  97 

And  there,  though  greyly  sinking  out  of  sight 

Before  the  wonders  of  the  sky  and  sea, 
Back  through  the  valley,  back  into  the  night, 

While  mystery  melted  into  mystery, 

The  City  still  rebuffed  the  far  sweet  West 
That  dimmed  her  sorrows  with  infinity; 

Yet  sometimes  yearning  o'er  the  sea's  bright  breast- 
To  that  remote  Avilion  would  she  gaze 
Where  all  lost  loves  and  weary  warriors  rest. 

Then  she  remembered,  through  that  golden  haze, 

(Oh  faint  as  flowers  the  rose-white  waves  resound) 
Her  Arthur  whom  she  loved  in  the  dead  days, 

And  how  he  sailed  to  heal  him  of  his  wound, 

And  how  he  lives  and  reigns  eternally 
Where  now  that  unknown  love  is  throned  and  crowned 

Who  laid  his  bleeding  head  against  her  knee 

And  loosed  the  bitter  breast-plate  and  unbound 
His  casque  and  brought  him  strangely  o'er  the  sea, 

And  how  she  reigns  beside  him  on  that  shore 
For  ever  (Yrma,  queen,  bend  down  to  me) 
And  they  twain  have  no  sorrow  any  more. 

Ill 

They  have  forgotten  all  that  vanished  away 

When  life's  dark  night  died  into  death's  bright  day 

They  have  forgotten  all  except  the  gleam 

Of  light  when  once  he  kissed  her  in  a  dream 

Once  on  the  lips  and  once  upon  the  brow 

In  the  white  orb  of  God's  transcendent  Now; 

And  even  then  he  knew  that,  long  before, 

Their  eyes  had  met  upon  some  distant  shore; 

Yea;  that  most  lonely  and  immortal  face 

Which  dwells  beyond  the  dreams  of  time  and  space 

Bowed  down  to  him  from  out  the  happy  place 

7 


98  THE  PROGRESS  OF  LOVE 

And  whispered  to  him,  low  and  sweet  and  low 
In  other  worlds  I  loved  you,  long  ago; 
And  then  he  knew  his  love  could  never  die 
Because  his  queen  was  throned  beyond  the  sky 
And  called  him  to  his  own  immortal  sphere 
Forgetting  Launcelot  and  Guinevere. 

So  Yrma  reigns  with  Arthur,  and  they  know 
They  loved  on  earth  a  million  years  ago; 

And  watched  the  sea- waves  wistfully  westward  wend ; 
And  heard  a  voice  whispering  in  their  flow, 
And  calling  through  the  silent  sunset-glow, 
Love  that  hath  no  beginning  hath  no  end. 


IV 

It  was  about  the  dawn  of  day 

I  heard  Etain  and  Anwyl  say 
The  waving  ferns  are  a  fairy  forest, 

It  is  time,  it  is  time  to  wander  away; 

For  the  dew  is  bright  on  the  heather  bells, 
And  the  breeze  in  the  clover  sways  and  swells, 

As  the  waves  on  the  blue  sea  wake  and  wander, 
Over  and  under  the  braes  and  dells. 

She  was  eight  years  old  that  day, 
Full  of  laughter  and  play; 

Eight  years  old  and  Anwyl  nine, — 
Two  young  lovers  were  they. 

Two  young  lovers  were  they, 

Born  in  the  City  of  Pain; 
There  was  never  a  song  in  the  world  so  gay 

As  the  song  of  the  child,  Etain; 

There  was  never  a  laugh  so  sweet 

With  the  ripple  of  fairy  bells, 
And  never  a  fairy  foot  so  fleet 

Dancing  down  the  woodland  dells! 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  LOVE  99 

She  was  eight  years  old  that  day, 
Two  young  lovers  were  they. 

There  was  never  a  sea  of  mystical  gleam3 

Glooming  under  enchanted  skies 
Deep  as  the  dark  miraculous  dreams 

In  Anwyl's  haunted  eyes. 

There  was  never  a  glory  of  light 

Around  the  carolling  lark 
As  Etain's  eyes  were  brave  and  bright 

To  daunt  the  coming  dark. 

Two  young  lovers  were  they 

Born  in  the  City  of  Pain; 
There  was  never  a  song  in  the  world  so  gay 

As  the  song  of  the  child,  Etain; 

Blithe  as  the  wind  in  the  trees, 

Blithe  as  the  bird  on  the  bough, 
Blithe  as  the  bees  in  the  sweet  Heart's-ease 

Where  Love  lies  bleeding  now. 


V 

And  God  sighed  in  the  sunset;  and  the  sea 

Forgot  her  sorrow,  and  all  the  breathless  West 
Grew  quiet  as  the  blue  tranquillity 

That  clad  the  broken  mountain's  brilliant  breast, 

Over  the  Citj'-,  with  deep  heather-bloom 
Heaving  from  crag  to  crag  in  sweet  unrest, 

A  sea  of  dim  rich  colour  and  warm  perfume 

Whose  billows  rocked  the  drowsy  honey-bee 
Among  the  golden  isles  of  gorse  and  broom 

Like  some  enchanted  ancient  argosy 

Drunkenly  blundering  over  seas  of  dream 
Past  unimagined  isles  of  mystery, 


100  THE  PROGRESS  OF  LOVE 

Over  whose  yellow  sands  the  soft  waves  cream, 
And  sunbeams  float  and  toss  across  the  bare 
Rose-white  arms  and  perilous  breasts  that  gleam 

Where  sirens  wind  their  glossy  golden  hair; 

Oh,  miles  on  miles,  the  honeyed  heather-bloom 
Heaving  its  purple  through  the  high  bright  air 

Rolled  a  silent  glory  of  gleam  and  gloom 

From  mossy  crag  to  crag  and  crest  to  crest 
Untroubled  by  the  valley's  depth  of  doom. 

The  hawk  dropped  down  into  the  pine-forest 

And,  far  below,  the  lavrock  ruffled  her  wings 
Blossomwise  over  her  winsome  secret  nest. 

Then  suddenly,  softly,  as  when  a  fairy  sings 

Out  of  the  heart  of  a  rose  in  the  heart  of  the  fern, 
Or  in  the  floating  starlight  faintly  rings 

The  frail  blue  hare-bells — turn  again,  and  turn, 

Under  and  over,  the  silvery  crescents  cry 
To  where  the  crimson  fox-glove  belfries  burn 

And  with  a  deeper  softer  peal  reply, 

There  came  a  ripple  of  music  through  the  roses 
That  rustled  on  the  dimmest  rim  of  sky 

Where  many  a  frame  of  fretted  leaves  encloses 

For  lovers  wandering  in  the  fern-wet  wood 
An  arch  of  summer  sea  that  softly  dozes 

As  if  all  mysteries  were  understood: 

Yrma,  my  queen,  what  love  could  understand 
That  faint  sweet  music,  God  saith  all  is  good, 

As  those  two  children,  hand  in  sunburnt  hand, 

Over  the  blithe  blue  hills  and  far  away 
Wandered  into  their  own  green  fairyland? 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  LOVE  101 

VI 

For  the  song  is  lost  that  shook  the  clew 

Where  the  wild  musk-roses  glisten, 
When  the  sunset  dreamed  that  a  dream  was  time 

And  the  birds  were  hushed  to  listen. 

The  song  is  lost  that  shook  the  night 

With  wings  of  richer  fire, 
Where  the  years  had  touched  their  eyes  with  light 

And  their  souls  with  a  new  desire; 

And  the  new  delight  of  the  strange  old  story 

Burned  in  the  flower-soft  skies, 
And  nine  more  years  with  a  darker  glory 

Had  deepened  the  light  of  her  eyes; 

But  lost,  oh  more  than  lost  the  song 

That  shook  the  rose  to  tears, 
As  hand  in  hand  they  danced  along 

Through  childhood's  everlasting  years. 

"Oh,  Love  has  wings,"  the  linnet  sings; 

But  the  dead  return  no  more,  no  more; 
And  the  sea  is  breaking  its  old  grey  heart 

Against  the  golden  shore. 

She  was  eight  years  old  that  day, 
Two  young  lovers  were  they. 

If  every  song  as  they  danced  along 

Paused  on  the  springing  spray; 
Is  there  never  a  bird  in  the  wide  greenwood1 

Will  hush  its  heart  to-day? 

There's  never  a  leaf  with  dew  impearled 

To  make  their  pathway  sweet, 
And  never  a  blossom  in  all  the  world 

That  knows  the  kiss  of  their  feet. 


U3R  '  Y 
UNIVERSITY  iFORNIA 


102  THE  PROGRESS  OF  LOVE 

No  light  to-night  declares  the  word 
That  thrilled  the  blossomed  bough, 

And  stilled  the  happy  singing  bird 
That  none  can  silence  now. 

The  weary  nightingale  may  sob 

With  her  bleeding  breast  against  a  thorn, 

And  the  wild  white  rose  with  every  throb 
Grow  red  as  the  laugh  of  morn; 

With  wings  outspread  she  sinks  her  head 
But  Love  returns  no  more,  no  more; 

And  the  sea  is  breaking  its  old  grey  heart 
Against  the  golden  shore. 

Born  in  the  City  of  Pain; 

Ah,  who  knows,  who  knows 
When  Death  shall  turn  to  delight  again 

Or  a  wound  to  a  red,  red  rose? 

Eight  years  old  that  day, 
Full  of  laughter  and  play ; 

Eight  years  old  and  Anwyl  nine, — 
Two  young  lovers  were  they. 


VII 

And  down  the  scented  heather-drowsy  hills 

The  bare-foot  children  wandered,  hand  in  hand, 
And  paddled  through  the  laughing  silver  rills 

In  quest  of  fairyland; 
And  in  each  little  sunburnt  hand  a  spray, 

A  purple  fox-glove  bell-branch  lightly  swung, 
And  Anwyl  told  Etain  how,  far  away, 

One  day  he  wandered  through  the  dreamland  dells 
And  watched  the  moonlit  fairies  as  they  sung 

And  tolled  the  fox-glove  bells; 
And  oh,  how  sweetly,  sweetly  to  and  fro 
The  fragrance  of  the  music  reeled  and  rung 

Under  the  loaded  boughs  of  starry  May. 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  LOVE  103 

And  God  sighed  in  the  sunset,  and  the  sea 
Grew  quieter  than  the  hills:  the  mystery 
Of  ocean,  earth  and  sky  was  like  a  word 

Uttered,  but  all  unheard, 
Uttered  by  every  wave  and  cloud  and  leaf 
With  all  the  immortal  glory  of  mortal  grief; 
And  every  wave  that  broke  its  heart  of  gold 

In  music  on  the  rainbow-dazzled  shore 
Seemed  telling,  strangely  telling,  evermore 

A  story  that  must  still  remain  untold. 

Oh,  Once  upon  a  time,  and  o'er  and  o'er 

As  aye  the  Happy  ever  after  came 
The  enchanted  waves  lavished  their  faery  lore 

And  tossed  a  foam-bow  and  a  rosy  flame 

Around  the  whispers  of  the  creaming  foam, 
Till  the  old  rapture  with  the  new  sweet  name 

Through  all  the  old  romance  began  to  roam, 

And  Anwyl,  gazing  out  across  the  sea, 
Dreamed  that  he  heard  the  distance  whisper  "Come." 

"Etain,"  he  murmured  softly  and  wistfully, 

With  the  soul's  wakening  wonder  in  his  e}res, 
"Is  it  not  strange  to  think  that  there  can  be 

"No  end  for  ever  and  ever  to  those  skies, 

No  shore  beyond,  or  if  there  be  a  shore 

Still  without  end  the  world  beyond  it  lies; 

"Think;  think,  Etain;"  and  all  his  faery  lore 

Mixed  with  the  faith  that  brought  all  gods  to  birth 
And  sees  new  heavens  transcend  for  evermore 

The  poor  impossibilities  of  earth; 

But  Etain  only  laughed :  the  world  to  her 
Was  one  sweet  smile  of  very  present  mirth; 

Its  flowers  were  only  flowers,  common  or  rare; 

Her  soul  was  like  a  little  garden  closed 
By  rose-clad  walls,  a  place  of  southern  air 


104  THE  PROGRESS  OF  LOVE 

Islanded  from  the  Mystery  that  reposed 

Its  vast  and  brooding  wings  on  that  abyss 
Through  which  like  little  clouds  that  dreamed  and  dozed 

The  thoughts  of  Anwyl  wandered  toward  some  bliss 
Unknown,  unfathomed,  far,  how  far  away, 

Where  God  has  gathered  all  the  eternities 

Into  strange  heavens,  beyond  the  night  and  day. 


VIII 

And  over  the  rolling  golden  bay, 

In  the  funeral  pomp  of  the  dying  day, 

The  bell  of  Time  was  wistfully  tolling 
A  million  million  years  awaj^; 

And  over  the  heather-drowsj'  hill 
Where  the  burdened  bees  were  buzzing  still, 
The  two  little  sun-bright  barefoot  children 
Wandered  down  at  the  flowers'  own  will; 

For  still  as  the  bell  in  the  sunset  tolled, 
The  meadow-sweet  and  the  mary-gold 

And  the  purple  orchis  kissed  their  ankles 
And  lured  them  over  the  listening  wold. 

And  the  feathery  billows  of  blue-gold  grass 
Bowed  and  murmured  and  bade  them  pass, 

Where  a  sigh  of  the  sea-wind  softly  told  them 
There  is  no  Time — Time  never  was. 

And  what  if  a  sorrow  were  tolled  to  rest 

Where  the  rich  light  mellowed  away  in  the  West, 

As  a  glory  of  fruit  in  an  autumn  orchard 
Heaped  and  asleep  o'er  the  sea's  ripe  breast? 

Why  should  they  heed  it,  what  should  they  know 
Of  the  years  that  come  or  the  years  that  go, 

With  the  warm  blue  sky  around  and  above  them 
And  the  wild  thyme  whispering  to  and  fro? 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  LOVE  105 

For  they  heard  in  the  dreamy  dawn  of  day 
A  fairy  harper  faintly  play, 

Follow  me,  follow  me,  little  children, 
Over  the  hills  and  far  away; 

Where  the  dew  is  bright  on  the  heather-bells, 
And  the  breeze  in  the  clover  sways  and  swells, 

As  the  waves  on  the  blue  sea  wake  and  wander, 
Over  and  under  the  braes  and  dells. 

And  the  hare-bells  tinlded  and  rang  Ding  dong 
Bell  in  the  dell  as  they  danced  along, 

And  their  feet  were  stained  on  the  hills  with  honey, 
And  crushing  the  clover  till  evensong. 

And,  oh  the  ripples  that  rolled  in  rhyme 
Under  the  wild  blue  banks  of  thyme, 

To  the  answering  rhyme  of  the  rolling  ocean's 
Golden  glory  of  change  and  chime ! 

For  they  came  to  a  stream  and  her  fairy  lover 
Caught  at  her  hand  and  swung  her  over, 

And  the  broad  wet  buttercups  laughed  and  gilded 
Their  golden  knees  in  the  deep  sweet  clover. 

There  was  never  a  lavrock  up  in  the  skies 
Blithe  as  the  laugh  of  their  lips  and  eyes, 

As  they  glanced  and  glittered  across  the  meadows 
To  waken  the  sleepy  butterflies. 

There  was  never  a  wave  on  the  sea  so  gay 

As  the  light  that  danced  on  their  homeward  way 

Where  the  waving  ferns  were  a  fairy  forest 
And  a  thousand  years  as  yesterday. 

She  was  eight  years  old  that  day, 
Full  of  laughter  and  play; 

Eight  years  old  and  Anwyl  nine,— 
Two  young  lovers  were  they. 


106  THE  PROGRESS  OF  LOVE 

And  when  the  clouds  like  folded  sheep 
Were  drowsing  over  the  drowsy  deep, 

And  like  a  rose  in  a  golden  cradle 
Anwyl  breathed  on  the  breast  of  sleep, 

Or  ever  the  petals  and  leaves  were  furled 
At  the  vesper-song  of  the  sunset- world, 

The  sleepy  young  rose  of  nine  sweet  summers 
Dreamed  in  his  rose-bed  cosily  curled. 

And  what  if  the  light  of  his  nine  bright  years 
Glistened  with  laughter  or  glimmered  with  tears, 

Or  gleamed  like  a  mystic  globe  around  him 
White  as  the  light  of  the  sphere  of  spheres? 

And  what  if  a  glory  of  angels  there, 
Starring  an  orb  of  ineffable  air, 

Came  floating  down  from  the  Gates  of  jasper 
That  melt  into  flowers  at  a  maiden's  prayer? 

And  what  if  he  dreamed  of  a  fairy  face 
Wondering  out  of  some  happy  place, 

Quietly  as  a  star  at  sunset 
Shines  in  the  rosy  dreams  of  space? 

For  only  as  far  as  the  west  wind  blows 
The  sweets  of  a  swinging  full-blown  rose, 
Eight  years  old  and  queen  of  the  lilies 
Little  Etain  slept — ah,  how  close ! 

At  a  flower-cry  over  the  moonlit  lane 
In  a  cottage  of  roses  dreamed  Etain, 

And  their  purple  shadows  kissed  at  her  lattice 
And  dappled  her  sigh-soft  counterpane; 

And  or  ever  Etain  with  her  golden  head 
Had  nestled  to  sleep  in  her  lily-white  bed, 
She  breathed  a  dream  to  her  fairy  lover, 
Please,  God,  bless  Anwyl  and  me,  she  said. 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  LOVE  107 

And  a  song  arose  in  the  rose-white  West, 
And  a  whisper  of  wings  o'er  the  sea's  bright  breast, 
And  a  cry  where  the  moon's  old  miracle  wakened 
A  glory  of  pearl  o'er  the  pine-forest. 

Why  should  they  heed  it?     What  should  they  know 
Of  the  years  to  come  or  the  years  to  go? 

With  the  starry  skies  around  and  above  them 
And  the  roses  whispering  to  and  fro. 

Ah,  was  it  a  song  of  the  mystic  morn 
When  into  their  beating  hearts  the  thorn 

Should  pierce  through  the  red  wet  crumpled  roses 
And  all  the  sorrow  of  love  be  born? 

Ah,  was  it  a  cry  of  the  wild  wayside 
Whereby  one  day  they  must  surely  ride, 

Out  of  the  purple  garden  of  passion 
To  Calvary,  to  be  crucified? 

Only  the  sound  of  the  distant  sea 
Broke  on  the  shores  of  Mystery, 

And  tolled  as  a  bell  might  toll  for  sorrow 
Till  Time  be  tombed  in  Eternity; 

And  in  their  dreams  they  only  heard 
Far  away,  one  secret  bird 

Sing,  till  the  passionate  purple  twilight 
Throbbed  with  the  wonder  of  one  sweet  word : 

One  sweet  word  and  the  wonder  awoke, 

And  the  leaves  and  the  flowers  and  the  starlight  spoke 

In  silent  rapture  the  strange  old  secret 
That  none  e'er  knew  till  the  death-dawn  broke; 

One  sweet  whisper,  and  hand  in  hand 
They  wandered  in  dreams  through  fairyland, 

Rapt  in  the  star-bright  mystical  music 
Which  only  a  child  can  understand. 


108  THE  PROGRESS  OF  LOVE 

But  never  a  child  in  the  world  can  tell 
The  wonderful  tale  he  knows  so  well, 

Though  ever  as  old  Time  dies  in  the  sunset 
It  tolls  and  tolls  like  a  distant  bell. 

Love,  love,  love;  and  they  hardly  knew 

The  sense  of  the  glory  that  round  them  grew; 

But  the  world  was  a  wide  enchanted  garden; 
And  the  song,  the  song,  the  song  rang  true. 

And  they  danced  with  the  fairies  in  emerald  rings 
Arched  by  the  light  of  their  rainbow  wings, 

And  they  heard  the  wild  green  Harper  striking 
A  starlight  over  the  golden  strings. 

Love,  oh  love;  and  they  roamed  once  more 
Through  a  forest  of  flowers  on  a  fairy  shore, 

And  the  sky  was  a  wild  bright  laugh  of  wonder 
And  the  West  was  a  dream  of  the  years  of  yore. 

In  other  worlds  I  loved  you,  long  ago: 
Love  that  hath  no  beginning  hath  no  end : 

The  heather  whispers  low  and  sweet  and  low, 

In  other  worlds  I  loved  you,  long  ago; 

The  meadows  murmur  and  the  firwoods  know 
The  message  that  the  kindling  East  shall  send; 

In  other  worlds  I  loved  you,  long  ago: 
Love  that  hath  no  beginning  hath  no  end. 

IX 

Out  of  the  deep,  my  dream,  out  of  the  deep, 
Yrma,  thy  voice  came  to  me  in  my  sleep, 
And  through  a  rainbow  woven  of  human  tears 
I  saw  two  lovers  wandering  down  the  years; 
Two  children,  first,  that  roamed  a  sunset  land, 
And  then  two  lovers  wandering  hand  in  hand, 
Forgetful  of  their  childhood's  Paradise, 
For  nine  more  years  had  darkened  in  their  eyes, 
And  heaven  itself  could  hardly  find  again 
Anwyl,  the  star-child,  or  the  flower,  Etain. 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  LOVE  109 

For  on  a  day  in  May,  as  through  the  wood 

With  earth's  new  passion  beating  in  his  blood 

He  went  alone,  an  empty-hearted  youth, 

Seeking  he  knew  not  what  white  flower  of  truth 

Or  beauty,  on  all  sides  he  seemed  to  see 

Swift  subtle  hints  of  some  new  harmony, 

Yet  all  unheard,  ideal,  and  incomplete, 

A  silent  song  compact  of  hopes  and  fears, 

A  music  such  as  lights  the  wandering  feet 

Of  Yrma  when  on  earth  she  reappears. 

And  he  forgot  that  sad  grey  City  of  Pain, 

For  all  earth's  old  romance  returned  again, 

And  as  he  went,  his  dreaming  soul  grew  glad 

To  think  that  he  might  meet  with  Galahad 

Or  Parsifal  in  some  green  glade  of  fern, 

Or  see  between  the  boughs  a  helmet  burn 

And  hear  a  joyous  laugh  kindle  the  sky 

As  through  the  wood  Sir  Launcelot  rode  by 

With  face  upturned  to  take  the  sun  like  wine. 

Ah,  was  it  love  that  made  the  whole  world  shine 

Like  some  great  angel's  face,  blinded  with  bliss, 

While  Anwyl  dreamed  of  bold  Sir  Amadis 

And  Guinevere's  white  arms  and  Iseult's  kiss, 

And  that  glad  island  in  a  golden  sea 

Where  Arthur  lives  and  reigns  eternally? 

Surely  the  heavens  were  one  wide  rose-white  flame 

As  down  the  path  to  meet  him  Yrma  came; 

Ah,  was  it  Yrma,  with  those  radiant  eyes, 

That  came  to  greet  and  lead  him  through  the  skies2 

The  skies  that  gloomed  and  gleamed  so  far  above 

The  little  wandering  prayers  of  human  love?  .    .    . 

He  had  forgotten  all  except  the  gleam 

Of  light  when  once  he  kissed  her  in  a  dream,   .    .    . 

For  surely  then  he  knew  that  long  before 

Their  eyes  had  met  upon  some  distant  shore.   .    .    . 

Ah,  was  it  Yrma  whose  red  lips  he  met 

Between  the  branches,  where  the  leaves  were  wet? 

Etain  or  Yrma,  for  it  seemed  her  face 

Bent  down  upon  him  from  some  happy  place 

And  whispered  to  him,  low  and  sweet  and  low, 

In  other  worlds  I  loved  you,  long  ago! 


110  THE  PROGRESS  OF  LOVE 

And  he,  too,  knew  his  love  could  never  die, 
Because  his  queen  was  throned  beyond  the  sky. 

Yet  in  sweet  mortal  eyes  he  met  her  now 
And  kissed  Etain  beneath  the  hawthorn  bough, 
And  dared  to  dream  his  infinite  dream  was  true 
On  earth  and  reign  with  Etain,  dream  he  knew 
Why  leaves  were  green  and  skies  were  fresh  and  blue; 
Yea,  dream  he  knew,  as  children  dream  they  know 
They  knew  all  this  a  million  years  ago, 

And  watched  the  sea- waves  wistfully  westward  wend 
And  heard  a  voice  whispering  in  their  flow 
And  calling  through  the  silent  sunset-glow 

Love  that  hath  no  beginning  hath  no  end. 

Ah,  could  they  see  in  the  Valley  of  Gloom 

That  clove  the  cliffs  behind  the  City; 

Ah,  could  they  hear  in  the  forest  of  Doom 

The  peril  that  neared  without  pause  or  pity? 

Behind  the  veils  of  ivy  and  vine, 

Wild  musk-roses  and  white  woodbine, 

In  glens  that  were  wan  as  with  moonlit  tears 

And  rosy  with  ghosts  of  eglantine 

And  pale  as  with  lilies  of  long-past  years, 

Ah,  could  they  see,  could  they  hear,  could  they  know 

Behind  that  beautiful  outward  show, 

Behind  the  pomp  and  glory  of  life 

That  seething  old  anarchic  strife? 

For  there  in  many  a  dim  blue  glade 

Where  the  rank  red  poppies  burned, 

And  if  perchance  some  dreamer  strayed 

He  nevermore  returned, 

Cold  incarnate  memories 

Of  earth's  retributory  throes, 

Deadly  desires  and  agonies 

Dark  as  the  worm  that  never  dies, 

In  the  outer  night  arose, 

And  waited  under  those  wonderful  skies 

With  Hydra  heads  and  mocking  eyes 

That  winked  upon  the  waning  West 

From  out  the  gloom  of  the  oak-forest, 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  LOVE  111 

Till  all  the  wild  profound  of  wood 

That  o'er  the  haunted  valley  slept 

Glowed  with  eyes  like  pools  of  blood 

As,  lusting  after  a  hideous  food, 

Through  the  haggard  vistas  crept 

Without  a  cry,  without  a  hiss, 

The  serpent  broods  of  the  abyss. 

Ancestral  folds  in  darkness  furled 

Since  the  beginnings  of  the  world. 

Ring  upon  awful  ring  uprose 

That  obscure  heritage  of  foes, 

The  exceeding  bitter  heritage 

Which  still  a  jealous  God  bestows 

From  inappellable  age  to  age, 

The  ghostly  worms  that  softly  move 

Through  every  grey  old  corse  of  love 

And  creep  across  the  coffined  years 

To  batten  on  our  blood  and  tears; 

And  there  were  hooded  shapes  of  death 

Gaunt  and  grey,  cruel  and  blind, 

Stealing  softl3r  as  a  breath 

Through  the  woods  that  loured  behind 

The  City;  hooded  shapes  of  fear 

Slowly,  slowly  stealing  near; 

While  all  the  gloom  that  round  them  rolled 

With  intertwisting  coils  grew  cold. 

And  there  with  leer  and  gap-toothed  grin 

Many  a  gaunt  ancestral  Sin 

With  clutching  fingers,  white  and  thin, 

Strove  to  put  the  boughs  aside; 

And  still  before  them  all  would  glide 

Down  the  wavering  moon-white  track 

One  lissom  figure,  clad  in  black; 

Who  wept  at  mirth  and  mocked  at  pain 

And  murmured  a  song  of  the  wind  and  the  rain; 

His  laugh  was  wild  with  a  secret  grief; 

His  eyes  were  deep  like  woodland  pools; 

And,  once  and  again,  as  his  face  drew  near 

In  a  rosy  gloaming  of  eglantere, 

All  the  ghosts  that  gathered  there 


112  THE  PROGRESS  OF  LOVE 

Bowed  together,  naming  his  name: 
Lead  us,  ah  thou  Shadow  of  a  Leaf, 
Child  and  master  of  all  our  shame, 
Fool  of  Doubt  and  King  of  Fools. 

Now  the  linnet  had  ended  his  even-song, 

And  the  lark  dropt  down  from  his  last  wild  ditty 

And  ruffled  his  wings  and  his  speckled  breast 

Blossom-wise  over  his  June-sweet  nest; 

While  winging  wistfully  into  the  West 

As  a  fallen  petal  is  wafted  along 

The  last  white  sea-mew  sought  for  rest; 

And,  over  the  gleaming  heave  and  swell 

Of  the  swinging  seas, 

Drowsily  breathed  the  dreaming  breeze. 

Then,  suddenly,  out  of  the  Valley  of  Gloom 

That  clove  the  cliffs  behind  the  City, 

Out  of  the  silent  forest  of  Doom 

That  clothed  the  valley  with  clouds  of  fear 

Swelled  the  boom  of  a  distant  bell 

Once,  and  the  towers  of  the  City  of  Pain 

Echoed  it,  without  hope  or  pity. 

The  tale  of  that  tolling  who  can  tell? 

That  dark  old  music  who  shall  declare? 

Who  shall  interpret  the  song  of  the  bell? 

Is  it  nothing  to  you,  all  ye  that  hear, 

Sorrowed  the  bell,  Is  it  nothing  to  you? 

Is  it  nothing  to  you?  the  shore-wind  cried, 

Is  it  nothing  to  you?  the  cliffs  replied. 

But  the  low  light  laughed  and  the  skies  were  blue, 

And  this  was  only  the  song  of  the  bell. 

X 

ANWYL 

A  darkened  casement  in  a  darker  room 

Was  all  his  home,  whence  weary  and  bowed  and  white 
He  watched  across  the  slowly  gathering  gloom 

The  slowly  westering  light. 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  LOVE  113 

Bitterness  in  his  heavy-clouded  eyes, 

Bitterness  as  of  heaven's  intestine  wars 
Brooded;  he  looked  upon  the  unfathomed  skies 

And  whispered — to  the  stars — 

Some  day,  he  said,  she  will  forget  all  this 
That  she  calls  life,  and  looking  far  above 

See  throned  among  the  great  eternities 
This  dream  of  mine,  this  love; 

Love  that  has  given  my  soul  these  wings  of  fire 
To  beat  in  glory  above  the  sapphire  sea, 

Until  the  wings  of  the  infinite  desire 
Close  in  infinity; 

Love  that  has  taken  the  glory  of  hawthorn  boughs, 
And  all  the  dreaming  beauty  of  hazel  skies, 

As  ministers  to  the  radiance  of  her  brows 
And  haunted  April  eyes; 

Love  that  is  hidden  so  deep  beneath  the  dust 

Of  little  daily  duties  and  delights, 
Till  that  reproachful  face  of  hers  grows  just 

And  God  at  last  requites 

A  soul  whose  dream  was  deeper  than  the  skies, 
A  heart  whose  hope  was  wider  than  the  sea, 

Yet  could  not  enter  through  his  true  love's  eyes 
Their  grey  infinity. 

And  so  I  know  I  wound  her  all  day  long 
Because  my  heart  must  seem  so  far  away; 

And  even  my  love  completes  the  silent  wrong 
For  all  that  it  can  say 

Seems  vast  and  meaningless  to  mortal  sense; 

Its  vague  desire  can  never  reach  its  goal 
Till  knowledge  vanishes  in  omniscience 

And  God  surrounds  her  soul, 

8 


114  THE  PROGRESS  OF  LOVE 

Breaking  its  barriers  down  and  flooding  in 
Through  all  her  wounds  in  one  almighty  tide, 

Mingling  her  soul  with  that  great  Love  wherein 
My  soul  waits,  glorified. 


XI 
ETAIN 

My  love  is  dying,  dying  in  my  heart; 

There  is  no  song  in  heaven  for  such  as  I 
"Who  watch  the  days  and  years  of  youth  depart, 

The  bloom  decay  and  die; 

The  rose  that  withers  in  the  hollow  cheek, 
The  leaden  rings  that  mark  us  old  and  wise; 

And  Time  that  writes  what  Pity  dares  not  speak 
Around  the  fading  eyes. 

He  dreams  he  loves;  but  only  loves   his  dream; 

And  in  his  dream  he  never  can  forget 
Abana  seems  a  so  much  mightier  stream 

And  Pharpar  wider  yet; 

The  little  deeds  of  love  that  light  the  shrine 
Of  common  daily  duties  with  such  gleams 

Of  heaven,  to  me  are  scarcely  less  divine 
Than  those  poor  wandering  dreams 

Of  deeds  that  never  happen !    I  give  him  this, 
This  heart  he  cannot  find  in  heaven  above; 

This  heart,  this  heart  of  all  the  eternities, 
This  life  of  mine,  this  love; 

Love  that  is  lord  of  all  the  world  at  once 
And  never  bade  the  encircled  spirit  roam 

To  the  circle's  bound,  be}'ond  the  moons  and  suns, 
But  makes  each  heart  its  home. 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  LOVE  115 

And  every  home  the  heart  of  Space  and  Time, 
And  each  and  all  a  heaven  if  love  could  reign; 

One  infinite  untranscended  heaven  sublime 
With  God's  own  joy  and  pain. 

Why,  that  was  what  God  meant,  to  set  us  here 
In  Eden,  when  he  saw  that  all  was  good; 

And  we  have  made  the  sun  black  with  despair, 
And  turned  the  moon  to  blood. 

So  has  Love  taught  me  that  too  learned  tongue, 
And  in  his  poorer  wisdom  made  me  wise ; 

I  grew  so  proud  of  the  red  drops  we  wrung 
From  all  philosophies. 

My  heart  is  narrow,  foolish,  what  you  will; 

But  this  I  know  God  meant  who  set  us  here, 
And  gave  each  soul  the  Infinities  to  fulfil 

From  its  own  widening  sphere. 

To  annex  new  regions  to  the  soul's  domain, 
To  expand  the  circle  of  the  golden  hours, 

Till  it  enfolds  again  and  yet  again 
New  heavens,  new  fields,  new  flowers, 

Oh,  this  is  well;  but  still  the  central  heart 
Is  here  at  home,  not  wandering  like  the  wind 

That  gathers  nothing,  but  must  still  depart 
Leaving  a  waste  behind. 

Where  is  the  song  I  sang  that  April  morn, 

When  all  the  poet  in  his  eyes  awoke 
My  sleeping  heart  to  heaven;  and  love  was  born? 

For  while  the  glad  day  broke 

We  met;  and  as  the  softly  kindling  skies 

Thrilled  through  the  scented  vistas  of  the  wood 

I  felt  the  sudden  love-light  in  his  eyes 
Kindle  my  beating:  blood. 


116  THE  PROGRESS  OF  LOVE 

Happy  day,  happy  day, 
Chasing  the  clouds  of  the  night  away 

And  bidding  the  dreams  of  the  dawn  depart 
Over  the  freshening  April  blue, 

Till  the  blossoms  awake  to  welcome  the  May, 
And  the  world  is  made  anew; 

And  the  blackbird  sings  on  the  dancing  spray 
With  eyes  of  glistening  dew; 

"Happy,  happy,  happy  day;" 
For  he  knows  that  his  love  is  true; 

He  knows  that  his  love  is  true,  my  heart, 
He  knows  that  his  love  is  true! 


I  cannot  sing  it :  these  tears  blind  me :  love, 

0  love,  come  back  before  it  is  too  late, 
Why,  even  Christ  came  down  to  us  from  above: 

1  think  His  love  was  great; 


Yet  he  stood  knocking,  knocking  at  the  door 
Until  his  piteous  hands  were  worn  with  scars; 

He  did  not  hide  that  crown  of  love  he  wore 
Among  the  lonely  stars. 


This  round  of  hours,  the  daily  flowers  I  cull 
Are  more  to  me  than  all  the  rolling  spheres, 

A  wounded  bird  at  hand  more  pitiful 
Than  some  great  seraph's  tears. 


How  should  I  join  the  great  wise  choir  above 
With  my  starved  spirit's  pale  inhuman  dearth, 

Who  never  heard  the  cry  of  heavenly  love 
Rise  from  the  sweet-souled  earth? 


Yet  it  is  I  he  needs,  and  I  for  whom 

His  greed  exceeds,  his  dreams  fly  wide  of  the  mark! 
Is  it  all  self?     I  wander  in  the  gloom; 

The  ways  of  God  grow  dark; 


THE  PROGRESS  OP  LOVE  117 

I  watch  the  rose  that  withers  in  the  cheek, 
The  leaden  rings  that  mark  us  old  and  'wise; 

And  Time  that  writes  what  Pity  dares  not  speak 
Around  the  fading  eyes. 


XII 

And  ever  as  Anwyl  went  the  unknown  end 
Faded  before  him,  back  and  back  and  back 

He  saw  new  empty  heavens  for  ever  bend 
Over  his  endless  track; 

And  memory,  burning  with  new  hopeless  fire, 
Showed  him  how  every  passing  infinite  hour 

Made  some  new  Crucifix  for  the  World's  Desire 
Is  some  new  wayside  flower: 

He  saw  what  joy  and  beauty  owed  to  death; 

How  all  the  world  was  one  great  sacrifice 
Of  Him,  in  whom  all  creatures  that  draw  breath 

Share  God's  eternal  skies; 

How  Love  is  lord  of  all  the  world  at  once; 

And  never  bids  the  encircled  spirit  roam 
To  the  circle's  bound,  beyond  the  moons  and  suns, 

But  makes  each  heart  its  home, 

And  every  home  the  heart  of  Space  and  Time, 
And  each  and  all  a  heaven  if  love  could  reign 

One  infinite  untranscended  heaven  sublime 
With  God's  own  joy  and  pain. 


XIII 

Out  of  the  deep,  my  dream,  out  of  the  deep, 
A  little  child  came  to  him  in  his  sleep 
And  led  him  back  to  what  was  Paradise 
Before  the  years  had  darkened  in  his  eyes, 
And  showed  him  what  he  ne'er  could  lose  again— 
The  light  that  once  enshrined  the  child  Etain. 


118  THE  PROGRESS  OF  LOVE 

Ah,  was  it  Yrma  with  those  radiant  eyes 

That  came  to  greet  and  lead  him  through  the  skies; 

Ay;  all  the  world  was  one  wide  rose- white  flame, 

As  down  the  path  to  meet  him  Yrma  came 

And  caught  the  child  up  in  her  arms  and  cried, 

This  is  my  child  that  moved  in  Etain's  side; 

Thy  child  and  Etain's:  I  the  unknown  ideal 

And  she  the  rich,  the  incarnate,  breathing  real 

Are  one;  for  me  thou  never  canst  attain 

But  by  the  love  I  yield  thee  for  Etain; 

Even  as  through  Christ  thy  soul  allays  its  dearth, 

Love's  heaven  is  only  compassed  upon  earth; 

And  by  that  love,  in  thine  own  Etain's  eyes 

Thou  shalt  find  all  God's  untranscended  skies. 


As  of  old,  as  of  old,  with  Etain  that  day, 
Over  the  hills,  and  far  away, 

He  roamed  thro'  the  fairy  forests  of  fern: 
Two  young  lovers  were  they. 

And  God  sighed  in  the  sunset,  and  the  sea 
Grew  quieter  than  the  hills :  the  mystery 
Of  ocean,  earth  and  sky  was  like  a  word 

Uttered,  but  all  unheard, 
Uttered  by  every  wave  and  cloud  and  leaf 
With  all  the  immortal  glory  of  mortal  grief; 
And  every  wave  that  broke  its  heart  of  gold 

In  music  on  the  rainbow-dazzled  shore 
Seemed  telling,  strangely  telling,  evermore 

A  story  that  must  still  remain  untold. 

Oh,  Once  upon  a  time,  and  o'er  and  o'er 

As  aye  the  Happy  ever  after  came 
The  enchanted  waves  lavished  their  faery  lore 

And  tossed  a  foam-bow  and  a  rosy  flame 
Around  the  whispers  of  the  creaming  foam, 

Till  the  old  rapture  with  the  new  sweet  name 
Through  all  the  old  romance  began  to  roam. 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  LOVE  119 

XIV 

And  those  two  lovers  only  heard 

— Oh,  love  is  a  dream  that  knows  no  waking — 
Far  away,  one  secret  bird, 
Where  all  the  roses  breathed  one  word, 
And  every  crispel  on  the  beach — 

Oh,  love  is  a  sea  that  is  ever  breaking! — 
Lisped  it  in  a  sweeter  speech; 
As  hand  in  hand,  by  the  sunset  sea 
That  breaks  on  the  shores  of  mystery, 
They  stood  in  the  gates  of  the  City  of  Pain 
To  watch  the  wild  waves  flutter  and  beat 
In  roses  of  white  soft  light  at  their  feet, 
Roses  of  delicate  music  and  light, 
Music  and  moonlight  under  their  feet. 
Crumbling  and  flashing  and  softly  crashing 
In  rainbow  colours  that  dazzle  and  wane 
And  wither  and  waken  and,  wild  with  delight, 
Dance  and  dance  to  a  mystic  tune 
And  scatter  their  leaves  in  a  flower-soft  rain 
Over  the  shimmering  golden  shore 
Between  the  West  and  the  waking  moon, 
Between  the  sunset  and  the  night; 
And  then  they  sigh  for  the  years  of  yore 
And  gather  their  glory  together  again, 
Petal  by  petal  and  gleam  by  gleam, 
Till,  all  in  one  rushing  rose-bright  stream 
They  dazzle  back  to  the  deep  once  more, 
For  the  dream  of  the  sea  is  an  endless  dream, 
And  love  is  a  sea  that  hath  no  shore, 
And  the  roses  dance  as  they  danced  before. 

XV 
In  other  worlds  I  loved  you,  long  ago: 

Love  that  hath  no  beginning  hath  no  end : 
Low  to  her  heart  he  breathed  it,  sweet  and  low; 
In  other  worlds  I  loved  you,  long  ago; 
This  is  a  word  that  all  the  sea-waves  know 

And  whisper  as  through  the  shoreless  West  they  wend, 
In  other  worlds  I  loved  you,  long  ago: 

Love  that  hath  no  beginning  hath  no  end. 


120  THE  PROGRESS  OF  LOVE 

XVI 

"Yet  love  can  die!"  she  murmured  once  again; 

For  this  was  in  that  City  by  the  Sea, 
That  old  grey  City  of  Pain, 

Built  on  the  shifting  shores  of  Mystery 
And  mocked  by  all  the  immeasurable  main. 

"Love  lives  to  die!" 
Under  the  deep  eternal  sky 

His  deeper  voice  caught  up  that  deep  refrain; 

"A  year  ago,  and  under  yonder  sun 

Earth  had  no  Heaven  to  hold  our  hearts  in  one ! 

For  me  there  was  no  love,  afar  or  nigh : 
And,  0,  if  love  were  thus  in  time  begun, 

Love,  even  our  love,  in  time  must  surely  die." 
Then  memory  murmured,  "No"; 
And  he  remembered,  a  million  years  ago, 

He  saw  the  sea-waves  wistfully  westward  wend; 
;  And  heard  her  voice  whispering  in  their  flow 
And  calling  through  the  silent  sunset-glow. 

Love  that  hath  no  beginning  hath  no  end. 

"Love  dies  to  live!"     How  wild,  how  deep  the  joy 
That  knows  no  death  can  e'er  destroy 

What  cannot  bear  destruction !    By  these  eyes 
I  know  that,  ere  the  fashioning  of  the  skies, 
Or  ever  the  sun  and  moon  and  stars  were  made 
I  loved  you.     Sweet,  I  am  no  more  afraid. 


"Love  lives  to  die!" 
Under  the  deep  eternal  sky 

Her  wild  sweet  voice  caught  up  that  deep  refrains 
There,  in  that  silent  City  by  the  Sea, 
Listening  the  wild-wave  music  of  Infinity, 

There,  in  that  old  grey  City  of  mortal  pain, 
Their  voices  mingled  in  mystic  unison 

With  that  immortal  harmony 
Which  holds  the  warring  worlds  in  one. 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  LOVE  121 

Their  Voice,  one  Voice,  yet  manifold, 

Possessed  the  seas,  the  fields,  the  sky, 

With  utterance  of  the  dream  that  cannot  die; 

Possessed  the  West's  wild  rose  and  dappled  gold, 

And  that  old  secret  of  the  setting  sun 

Which,  to  the  glory  of  Eternity, 

Time,  tolling  like  a  distant  bell, 

Evermore  faints  to  tell, 

And,  ever  telling,  never  yet  has  told. 

One,  and  yet  manifold 
Arose  their  Voice,  oh  strangely  one  again 
With  murmurs  of  the  immeasurable  main; 

As,  far  beyond  earth's  cloudy  bars, 
Their  Soul  surpassed  the  sunset  and  the  stars, 

And  all  the  heights  and  depths  of  temporal  pain, 
Till  seas  of  seraph  music  round  them  rolled. 

And  in  that  mystic  plane 
They  felt  their  mortal  years 
Break  away  as  a  dream  of  pain 
Breaks  in  a  stream  of  tears. 

Love,  of  whom  life  had  birth, 
See  now,  is  death  not  sweet? 
Love,  is  this  heaven  or  earth? 
Both  are  beneath  thy  feet. 

Nay,  both  within  thy  heart ! 

O  Love,  the  glory  nears; 

The  Gates  of  Pearl  are  flung  apart, 

The  Rose  of  Heaven  appears. 

Across  the  deeps  of  change, 

Like  pangs  of  visible  song, 

What  angel-spirits,  remote  and  strange, 

Thrill  through  the  starry  throng? 

And  oh,  what  wind  that  blows 
Over  the  mystic  Tree, 
What  whisper  of  the  sacred  Rose, 
What  murmur  of  the  sapphire  Sea, 


|32  THE  PROGRESS  OF  LOVE 

What  dreams  that  faint  and  fail 
From  harps  of  burning  gold, 
But  tell  in  heaven  the  sweet  old  tale 
An  earthly  sunset  told? 

Hark !  like  a  holy  bell 

Over  that  spirit  Sea, 

Time,  in  the  world  it  loves  so  well, 

Tolls  for  Eternity. 

Earth  calls  us  once  again, 
And,  through  the  mystic  Gleam, 
The  grey  old  City  of  mortal  pain 
Dawns  on  the  heavenly  dream. 

Sweet  as  the  voice  of  birds 
At  dawn,  the  years  return, 
With  little  songs  and  sacred  words 
Of  human  hearts  that  yearn. 

The  sweet  same  waves  resound 
Along  our  earthly  shore; 
But  now  this  earth  we  lost  and  found 
Is  heaven  for  evermore. 

Hark !  how  the  cosmic  choir, 
In  sea  and  flower  and  sun, 
Recalls  that  triumph  of  desire 
Which  made  all  music  one: 

One  universal  soul, 
Completing  joy  with  pain, 
And  harmonising  with  the  Whole 
The  temporal  refrain, 

Until  from  hill  and  plain, 
From  bud  and  blossom  and  tree, 
From  shadow  and  shining  after  rain, 
From  cloud  and  clovered  bee, 


THE  FOREST  OP  WILD  THYME  123 

From  earth  and  sea  and  sky, 
From  laughter  and  from  tears, 
One  molten  golden  harmony 
Fulfils  the  yearning  years. 

Love,  of  whom  death  had  birth, 
See  now,  is  life  not  sweet? 
Love,  is  this  heaven  or  earth? 
Both  are  beneath  thy  feet. 


hi  other  worlds  I  loved  you,  long  ago; 

Love  that  hath  no  beginning  hath  no  end; 
The  sea-waves  whisper,  low  and  sweet  and  low, 
In  other  worlds  I  loved  you,  long  ago; 
The  May-boughs  murmur  and  the  roses  know 

The  message  that  the  dawning  moon  shall  send; 
In  other  ivorlds  I  loved  you,  long  ago; 

Love  that  hath  no  beginning  hath  no  end. 


THE  FOREST  OF  WILD  THYME 

DEDICATED   TO 
HELEN,  ROSIE,  AND  BEATRIX 


PERSONS  OF  THE  TALE 


Ourselves 

Father 

Mother 

Little  Boy  Blue 


The  Hideous  Hermit 
The  King  of  Fairy-Land 
Pease- Blossom 
Mustard-Seed 


Dragons,  Fairies,  Mammoths,  Angels,  etc. 

APOLOGIA 

One  more  hour  to  wander  free 
With  Puck  on  his  unbridled  bee 

Thro'  heather-forests,  leagues  of  bloom, 
Our  childhood's  maze  of  scent  and  sun! 

Forbear  awhile  your  cotes  of  doom, 
Dear  Critics,  give  me  still  this  one 

Swift  hour  to  hunt  the  fairy  gleam 

That  flutters  thro'  the  unfettered  dream,, 


124  THE  FOREST  OF  WILD  THYME 

It  mocks  me  as  it  flies,  I  know: 
All  too  soon  the  gleam  will  go; 

Yet  I  love  it  and  shall  love 
My  dream  that  brooks  no  narrower  bars 

Than  bind  the  darkening  heavens  above, 
My  Jack  o'Lanthorn  of  the  stars: 

Then,  I'll  follow  it  no  more, 

I'll  light  the  lamp:  I'll  close  the  door. 


PRELUDE 

Hush  !  if  you  remember  how  we  sailed  to  old  Japan, 
Peterkin  was  with  us  then,  our  little  brother  Peterkin ! 

Now  we've  lost  him,  so  thej'  say:  I  think  the  tall  thin  man 

Must  have  come  and  touched  him  with  his  curious  twinkling 
fan 
And  taken  him  away  again,  our  merry  little  Peterkin; 

He'll  be  frightened  all  alone;  we'll  find  him  if  we  can; 
Come  and  look  for  Peterkin,  poor  little  Peterkin. 

No  one  would  believe  us  if  we  told  them  what  we  know, 

Or  they  wouldn't  grieve  for  Peterkin,  merry  little  Peterkin! 
If  they'd  only  watched  us  roaming  through  the  streets  of 

Miyako, 
And  travelling  in  a  palanquin  where  parents  never  go, 

And  seen  the  golden  gardens  where  we  wandered  once  with 
Peterkin, 
And  smelt  the  purple  orchards  where  the  cherry-blossoms  blow, 
They  wouldn't  mourn  for  Peterkin,  merry  little  Peterkin. 

Put  away  your  muskets,  lay  aside  the  drum, 

Hang  it  by  the  wooden  sword  we  made  for  little  Peterkin! 
He  was  once  our  trumpeter,  now  his  bugle's  dumb, 
Pile  your  arms  beneath  it,  for  the  owlet  light  is  come, 
We'll  wander  through  the  roses  where  we  marched  of  old 
with  Peterkin, 
We'll  search  the  summer  sunset  where  the  Hybla  beehives 
hum, 
And — if  we  meet  a  fairy  there — we'll  ask  for  news  of  Peterkin. 


THE  FOREST  OF  WILD  THYME  125 

He  was  once  our  cabin-boy  and  cooked  the  sweets  for  tea; 
And  0,  we've  sailed  around  the  world  with  laughing  little 
Peterkin; 
From  nursery  floor  to  pantrjr  door  we've  roamed  the  mighty 

sea, 
And  come  to  port  below  the  stairs  in  distant  Caribee, 

But  wheresoe'er  we  sailed  we  took  our  little  lubber  Peterkin, 
Because  his  wide  grey  eyes  believed  much  more  than  ours 
could  see, 
And  so  we  liked  our  Peterkin,  our  trusty  little  Peterkin. 


Peterkin,  Peterkin,  I  think  if  you  came  back 

The  captain  of  our  host  to-day  should  be  the  bugler  Peterkin, 
And  he  should  lead  our  smugglers  up  that  steep  and  narrow 

track, 
A  band  of  noble  brigands,  bearing  each  a  mighty  pack 

Crammed  with  lace  and  jewels  to  the  secret  cave  of  Peterkin, 
And  he  should  wear  the  biggest  boots  and  make  his  pistol 
crack, — 
The  Spanish  cloak,  the  velvet  mask,  we'd  give  them  all  to 
Peterkin. 


Come,  my  brother  pirates,  I  am  tired  of  play; 

Come  and  look  for  Peterkin,  little  brother  Peterkin, 
Our  merry  little  comrade  that  the  fairies  took  away, 
For  people  think  we've  lost  him,  and  when  we  come  to  say 

Our  good-night  prayers  to  mother,  if  we  pray  for  little 
Peterkin 
Her  eyes  are  very  sorrowful,  she  turns  her  head  away. 

Come  and  look  for  Peterkin,  merry  little  Peterkin. 

God  bless  little  Peterkin,  wherever  he  may  be! 

Come  and  look  for  Peterkin,  lonely  little  Peterkin: 
I  wonder  if  they've  taken  him  again  across  the  sea 
From  the  town  of  Wonder- Wander  and  the  Amfalula  tree 

To  the  land  of  many  marvels  where  we  roamed  of  old  with 
Peterkin, 
The  land  of  blue  pagodas  and  the  flowery  fields  of  tea! 

Come  and  look  for  Peterkin,  poor  little  Peterkin. 


126  THE  FOREST  OF  WILD  THYME 

PART  I 

THE  SPLENDID  SECRET 

Now  father  stood  engaged  in  talk 
With  mother  on  that  narrow  walk 
Between  the  laurels  (where  we  play 
At  Red-skins  lurking  for  their  prey) 
And  the  grey  old  wall  of  roses 
Where  the  Persian  kitten  dozes 
And  the  sunlight  sleeps  upon 
Crannies  of  the  crumbling  stone 
— So  hot  it  is  you  scarce  can  bear 
Your  naked  hand  upon  it  there, 
Though  there  luxuriating  in  heat 
With  a  slow  and  gorgeous  beat 
White-winged  currant-moths  display 
Their  spots  of  black  and  gold  all  day. — 


Well,  since  we  greatly  wished  to  know 
Whether  we  too  might  some  day  go 
Where  little  Peterkin  had  gone 
Without  one  word  and  all  alone, 
We  crept  up  through  the  laurels  there 
Hoping  that  we  might  overhear 
The  splendid  secret,  darkly  great, 
Of  Peterkin 's  mysterious  fate; 
And  on  what  high  adventure  bound 
He  left  our  pleasant  garden-ground, 
Whether  for  old  Japan  once  more 
He  voyaged  from  the  dim  blue  shore, 
Or  whether  he  set  out  to  run 
By  candle-light  to  Babylon. 


We  just  missed  something  father  said 

About  a  young  prince  that  was  dead, 

A  little  warrior  that  had  fought 

And  failed :  how  hopes  were  brought  to  nought 


THE  FOREST  OF  WILD  THYME  127 

He  said,  and  mortals  made  to  bow 

Before  the  Juggernaut  of  Death, 
And  all  the  world  was  darker  now, 

For  Time's  grey  lips  and  icy  breath 
Had  blown  out  all  the  enchanted  lights 
That  burned  in  Love's  Arabian  nights; 
And  now  he  could  not  understand 
Mother's  mystic  fairy-land, 
"Land  of  the  dead,  poor  fairy-tale," 
He  murmured,  and  her  face  grew  pale, 
And  then  with  great  soft  shining  eyes 
She  leant  to  him — she  looked  so  wise — 
And,  with  her  cheek  against  his  cheek, 
We  heard  her,  ah  so  softly,  speak. 

"Husband,  tnere  was  a  happy  day, 
Long  ago,  in  love's  young  May, 
When  with  a  wild-flower  in  your  hand 

You  echoed  that  dead  poet's  cry — 
'Little  flower,  but  if  I  could  understand!' 

And  you  saw  it  had  roots  in  the  depths  of  the  sky 
And  there  in  that  smallest  bud  lay  furled 
The  secret  and  meaning  of  all  the  world." 

He  shook  his  head  and  then  he  tried 
To  kiss  her,  but  she  only  cried 
And  turned  her  face  away  and  said, 
"You  come  between  me  and  my  dead! 
His  soul  is  near  me,  night  and  day, 
But  you  would  drive  it  far  away; 
And  you  shall  never  kiss  me  now 
Until  you  lift  that  brave  old  brow 
Of  faith  I  know  so  well ;  or  else 
Refute  the  tale  the  skylark  tells, 
Tarnish  the  glory  of  that  May, 
Explain  the  Smallest  Flower  away." 
And  still  he  said,  "Poor  fairy-tales, 
How  terribly  their  starlight  pales 
Before  the  solemn  sun  of  truth 
That  rises  o'er  the  grave  of  youth !" 


128  THE  FOREST  OF  WILD  THYME 

"Is  heaven  a  fairy-tale?"  she  said, — 
And  once  again  he  shook  his  head; 
And  yet  we  ne'er  could  understand 
Why  heaven  should  not  be  fairy-land, 
A  part  of  heaven  at  least,  and  why 
The  thought  of  it  made  mother  cry, 
And  why  they  went  away  so  sad, 

And  father  still  quite  unforgiven, 
For  what  could  children  be  but  glad 

To  find  a  fairy-land  in  heaven? 


And  as  we  talked  it  o'er  we  found 

Our  brains  were  really  spinning  round; 

But  Dick,  our,  eldest,  late  returned 

From  school,  by  all  the  lore  he'd  learned 

Declared  that  we  should  seek  the  lost 

Smallest  Flower  at  any  cost. 

For,  since  within  its  leaves  lay  furled 

The  secret  of  the  whole  wide  world, 

He  thought  that  we  might  learn  therein 

The  whereabouts  of  Peterkin; 

And,  if  we  found  the  Flower,  we  knew 

Father  would  be  forgiven,  too; 

And  mother's  kiss  atone  for  all 

The  quarrel  by  the  rose-hung  wall; 

We  knew,  not  how  we  knew  not  why, 

But  Dick  it  was  who  bade  us  try, 
Dick  made  it  all  seem  plain  and  clear, 
And  Dick  it  is  who  helps  us  here 
To  tell  this  tale  of  fairy-land 
In  words  we  scarce  can  understand. 
For  ere  another  golden  hour 

Had  passed,  our  anxious  parents  found 
We'd  left  the  scented  garden-ground 
To  seek — the  Smallest  Flower. 


THE  FOREST  OF  WILD  TH1  ME  129 

PART  II 
THE  FIRST  DISCOVERY 

0,  grown-ups  cannot  understand 

And  grown-ups  never  will, 
How  short's  the  way  to  fairy-land 

Across  the  purple  hill: 
They  smile:  their  smile  is  very  bland, 

Their  eyes  are  wise  and  chill; 
And  yet — at  just  a  child's  command — 

The  world's  an  Eden  still. 

Under  the  cloudy  lilac-tree, 

Out  at  the  garden-gate, 
We  stole,  a  little  band  of  three, 

To  tempt  our  fairy  fate. 
There  was  no  human  eye  to  see, 

No  voice  to  bid  us  wait; 
The  gardener  had  gone  home  to  tea, 

The  hour  was  very  late. 

I  wonder  if  you've  ever  dreamed, 

In  summer's  noonday  sleep, 
Of  what  the  thyme  and  heather  seemed 

To  ladybirds  that  creep 
Like  little  crimson  shimmering  gems 
Between  the  tiny  twisted  stems 

Of  fairy  forests  deep; 
And  what  it  looks  like  as  they  pass 
Through  jungles  of  the  golden  grass. 

If  you  could  suddenly  become 

As  small  a  thing  as  they, 
A  midget-child,  a  new  Tom  Thumb, 

A  little  gauze-winged  fay, 
Oh  then,  as  through  the  mighty  shades 
Of  wild  thyme  woods  and  violet  glades 

You  groped  your  forest-way, 
How  fraught  each  fragrant  bough  would  be 
With  dark  o'erhanging  mystery. 


130  THE  FOREST  OF  WILD  THYME 

How  high  the  forest  aisles  would  loom, 

What  wondrous  wings  would  beat 
Through  gloamings  loaded  with  perfume 

Id  many  a  rich  retreat, 
While  trees  like  purple  censers  bowed 
And  swung  beneath  a  swooning  cloud 

Mysteriously  sweet, 
Where  flowers  that  haunt  no  mortal  clime 
Burden  the  Forest  of  Wild  Thvme. 


We'd  watched  the  bats  and  beetles  flit 

Through  sunset-coloured  air 
The  night  that  we  discovered  it 

And  all  the  heavens  were  bare: 
We'd  seen  the  colours  melt  and  pass 
Like  silent  ghosts  across  the  grass 

To  sleep — our  hearts  knew  where; 
And  so  we  rose,  and  hand  in  hand 
We  sought  the  gates  of  fairy-land. 

For  Peterkin,  oh  Peterkin, 

The  cry  was  in  our  ears, 
A  fairy  clamour,  clear  and  thin 

From  lands  beyond  the  years; 
A  wistful  note,  a  djdng  fall 
As  of  the  fairy  bugle-call 

Some  dreamful  changeling  hears, 
And  pines  within  his  mortal  home 
Once  more  through  fairy-land  to  roam. 

We  left  behind  the  pleasant  row 

Of  cottage  window-panes, 
The  village  inn's  red-curtained  glow, 

The  lovers  in  the  lanes; 
And  stout  of  heart  and  strong  of  will 
We  climbed  the  purple  perfumed  hill, 

And  hummed  the  sweet  refrains 
Of  fairy  tunes  the  tall  thin  man 
Taught  us  of  old  in  Old  Japan. 


THE  FOREST  OF  WILD  THYME  131 

So  by  the  tall  wide-barred  church-gate 

Through  which  we  all  could  pass 
We  came  to  where  that  curious  plate, 

That  foolish  plate  of  brass, 
Said  Peterkin  was  fast  asleep 
Beneath  a  cold  and  ugly  heap 

Of  earth  and  stones  and  grass. 
It  was  a  splendid  place  for  play, 
That  churchyard,  on  a  summer's  day; 

A  splendid  place  for  hide-and-seek 

Between  the  grey  old  stones; 
Where  even  grown-ups  used  to  speak 

In  awestruck  whispering  tones; 
And  here  and  there  the  grass  ran  wild 
In  jungles  for  the  creeping  child, 

And  there  were  elfin  zones 
Of  twisted  flowers  and  words  in  rhyme 
And  great  sweet  cushions  of  wild  thyme. 

So  in  a  wild  thyme  snuggery  there 

We  stayed  awhile  to  rest; 
A  bell  was  calling  folk  to  prayer: 

One  star  was  in  the  West: 
The  cottage  lights  grew  far  away, 
The  whole  sky  seemed  to  waver  and  sway 

Above  our  fragrant  nest; 
And  from  a  distant  dreamland  moon 
Once  more  we  heard  that  fairy  tune: 

Why,  mother  once  had  sung  it  us 

When,  ere  we  went  to  bed, 
She  told  the  tale  of  Pyramus, 

How  Thisbe  found  him  dead 
And  mourned  his  eyes  as  green  as  leeks, 
His  cherry  nose,  his  cowslip  cheeks. 

That  tune  would  oft  around  us  float 

Since  on  a  golden  noon 
We  saw  the  play  that  Shakespeare  wrote 

Of  Lion,  Wall,  and  Moon; 


132  THE  FOREST  OF  WILD  THYME 

Ah,  hark — the  ancient  fairy  theme — 
Following  darkness  like  a  dream! 

The  very  song  Will  Shakespeare  sang, 
The  music  that  through  Sherwood  rang 
And  Arden  and  that  forest  glade 
Where  Hermie  and  Lysander  strayed, 
And  Puck  cried  out  with  impish  glee, 
Lord,  what  fools  these  mortals  be! 
Though  the  masquerade  was  mute 
Of  Quince  and  Snout  and  Snug  and  Flute, 
And  Bottom  with  his  donkey's  head 
Decked  with  roses,  white  and  red, 
Though  the  fairies  had  forsaken 
Sherwood  now  and  faintly  shaken 
The  forest-scents  from  off  their  feet, 
Yet  from  some  divine  retreat 
Came  the  music,  sweet  and  clear, 
To  hang  upon  the  raptured  ear 
With  the  free  unfettered  sway 
Of  blossoms  in  the  moon  of  May. 
Hark !  the  luscious  fluttering 
Of  flower-soft  words  that  kiss  and  cling, 
And  part  again  with  sweet  farewells, 
And  rhyme  and  chime  like  fairy-bells. 

"I  know  a  bank  where  the  wild  thyme  blows 
Where  oxlips  and  the  nodding  violet  grows, 
Quite  over-canopied  with  luscious  woodbine, 
With  sweet  musk-roses  and  with  eglantine.'* 

Out  of  the  undiscovered  land 

So  sweetly  rang  the  song, 
We  dreamed  we  wandered,  hand  in  hand, 

The  fragrant  aisles  along, 
Where  long  ago  had  gone  to  dwell 
In  some  enchanted  distant  dell 

The  outlawed  fairy  throng 
When  out  of  Sherwood's  wildest  glen 
Thev  sank,  forsaking  mortal  men 


THE  FOREST  OF  WILD  THYME  133 

And  as  we  dreamed,  the  shadowy  ground 

Seemed  gradually  to  swell; 
And  a  strange  forest  rose  around, 

But  how — we  could  not  tell — 
Purple  against  a  rose-red  sky 
The  big  boughs  brooded  silently: 

Far  off  we  heard  a  bell; 
And,  suddenly,  a  great  red  light 
Smouldered  before  our  startled  sight. 


Then  came  a  cry,  a  fiercer  flash, 

And  down  between  the  trees 
We  saw  great  crimson  figures  crash, 

Wild-eyed  monstrosities ; 
Great  dragon-shapes  that  breathed  a  flame 
From  roaring  nostrils  as  they  came: 

We  sank  upon  our  knees; 
And  looming  o'er  us,  ten  yards  high, 
Like  battleships  they  thundered  by. 

And  then,  as  down  that  mighty  dell 

We  followed,  faint  with  fear, 
We  understood  the  tolling  bell 

That  called  the  monsters  there; 
For  right  in  front  we  saw  a  house 
Woven  of  wild  mysterious  boughs 

Bursting  out  everywhere 
In  crimson  flames,  and  with  a  shout 
The  monsters  rushed  to  put  it  out. 

And,  in  a  flash,  the  truth  was  ours; 

And  there  we  knew — we  knew — 
The  meaning  of  those  trees  like  flowers, 

Those  boughs  of  rose  and  blue, 
And  from  the  world  we'd  left  above 
A  voice  came  crooning  like  a  dove 

To  prove  the  dream  was  true: 
And  this — we  knew  it  by  the  rhyme 
Must  be — the  Forest  of  Wild  Thvm«- 


134  THE  FOREST  OF  WILD  THYME 

For  out  of  the  mystical  rose-red  dome 

Of  heaven  the  voice  came  murmuring  down: 

Oh,  Ladybird,  Ladybird,  fly  away  home; 

Your  house  is  on  fire  and  your  children  are  gone. 

We  knew,  we  knew  it  by  the  rhyme, 

Though  we  seemed,  after  all, 
No  tinier,  yet  the  sweet  wild  thyme 

Towered  like  a  forest  tall 
All  round  us;  oh,  we  knew  not  how, 
And  yet— we  knew  those  monsters  now: 

Our  dream's  divine  recall 
Had  dwarfed  us,  as  with  magic  words; 
The  dragons  were  but  ladybirds ! 

And  all  around  us  as  we  gazed, 

Half  glad,  half  frightened,  all  amazed, 

The  scented  clouds  of  purple  smoke 

In  lurid  gleams  of  crimson  broke; 

And  o'er  our  heads  the  huge  black  trees 

Obscured  the  sky's  red  mysteries; 

While  here  and  there  gigantic  wings 

Beat  o'er  us,  and  great  scaly  things 

Fold  over  monstrous  leathern  fold 

Out  of  the  smouldering  copses  rolled; 

And  eyes  like  blood-red  pits  of  flame 

From  many  a  forest-cavern  came 

To  glare  across  the  blazing  glade, 

Till,  with  the  sudden  thought  dismayed, 

We  wondered  if  we  e'er  should  find 

The  mortal  home  we  left  behind : 

Fear  clutched  us  in  a  grisly  grasp, 

We  gave  one  wild  and  white-lipped  gasp, 

Then  turned  and  ran,  with  streaming  hair, 

Away,  away,  and  anywhere! 

And  hurry-skurry,  heart  and  heel  and  hand,  we  tore  along, 
And  still  our  flying  feet  kept  time  and  pattered  on  for 
Peterkin, 
For  Peterkin,  oh  Peterkin,  it  made  a  kind  of  song 


THE  FOREST  OF  WILD  THYME  135 

To  prove  the  road  was  right  although  it  seemed  so  dark  and 
wrong, 
As  through  the  desperate  woods  we  plunged  and  ploughed 
for  little  Peterkin, 
Where  many  a  hidden  jungle-beast  made  noises  like  a  gong 
That  rolled  and  roared  and  rumbled  as  we  rushed  along  to 
Peterkin. 

Peterkin,  Peterkin,  if  you  could  only  hear 

And  answer  us,  one  little  word  from  little  lonely  Peterkin 
To  take  and  comfort  father,  he  is  sitting  in  his  chair 

In  the  library:  he's  listening  for  your  footstep  on  the  stair 
And   your    patter  down  the  passage,  he  can  only  think  of 

Peterkin : 
Come  back,  come  back  to  father,  for  to-day  he'd  let  us  tear 

His  newest  book  to  make  a  paper-boat  for  little  Peterkin. 


PART  III 
THE  HIDEOUS  HERMIT 

Ah,  what  wonders  round  us  rose 

When  we  dared  to  pause  and  look, 
Curious  things  that  seemed  all  toes, 

Goblins  from  a  picture-book; 
Ants  like  witches,  four  feet  high, 

Waving  all  their  skinny  arms, 
Glared  at  us  and  wandered  by, 

Muttering  their  ancestral  charms. 

Stately  forms  in  green  and  gold 

Armour  strutted  through  the  glades, 

Just  as  Hamlet's  ghost,  we're  told, 
Mooned  among  the  midnight  shades: 

Once  a  sort  of  devil  came 
Scattering  broken  trees  about, 


136  THE  FOREST  OF  WILD  THYME 

Winged  with  leather,  eyed  with  flame, — 
He  was  but  a  moth,  no  doubt. 


Here  and  there,  above  us  clomb 

Feathery  clumps  of  palm  on  high: 
Those  were  ferns,  of  course,  but  some 

Really  seemed  to  touch  the  sky; 
Yes;  and  down  one  fragrant  glade, 

Listening  as  we  onward  stole, 
Half  delighted,  half  afraid, 

Dong,  we  heard  the  hare-bells  toll ! 

Something  told  us  what  that  gleam 

Down  the  glen  was  brooding  o'er; 
Something  told  us  in  a  dream 

What  the  bells  were  tolling  for ! 
Something  told  us  there  was  fear, 

Horror,  peril,  on  our  way! 
Was  it  far  or  was  it  near? 

Near,  we  heard  the  night-wind  say. 

Toll,  the  music  reeled  and  pealed 

Through  the  vast  and  sombre  trees, 
Where  a  rosy  light  revealed 

Dimmer,  sweeter  mysteries; 
And,  like  petals  of  the  rose, 

Fairy  fans  in  beauty  beat, 
Light  in  light — ah,  what  were  those 

Rhymes  we  heard  the  night  repeat? 


Toll,  a  dream  within  a  dream, 
Up  an  aisle  of  rose  and  blue, 

Up  the  music's  perfumed  stream 
Came  the  words,  and  then  we  knew, 

Knew  that  in  that  distant  glen 
Once  again  the  case  was  tried, 


THE  FOREST  OF  WILD  THYME  137 

Hark!—  Who  hilled  Cock  Robin,  then? 
And  a  tiny  voice  replied, 
"I 

killed 
Cock 
Robin!" 

"I!    And  who  are  You,  sir,  pray?" 

Growled  a  voice  that  froze  our  marrow: 
"Who!"  we  heard  the  murderer  say, 

"Lord,  sir,  I'm  the  famous  Sparrow, 
And  this  'ere's  my  bow  and  arrow! 
"I 

killed 
Cock 
Robin!" 


Then,  with  one  great  indrawn  breath, 

Such  a  sighin'  and  a  sobbin' 
Rose  all  round  us  for  the  death 

Of  poor,  poor  Cock  Robin, 
Oh,  we  couldn't  bear  to  wait 
Even  to  hear  the  murderer's  fate, 
Which  we'd  often  wished  to  know 
Sitting  in  the  fireside  glow 
And  with  hot  revengeful  looks 
Searched  for  in  the  nursery-books; 
For  the  Robin  and  the  Wren 
Are  such  friends  to  mortal  men, 
Such  dear  friends  to  mortal  men ! 


Toll;  and  through  the  woods  once  more 

Stole  we,  drenched  with  fragrant  dew: 
Toll;  the  hare-bell's  burden  bore 

Deeper  meanings  than  we  knew: 
Still  it  told  us  there  was  fear, 

Horror,  peril  on  our  way! 
Was  it  far  or  was  it  near? 

Near,  we  heard  the  night- wind  say! 


138  THE  FOREST  OF  WILD  THYME 

Near;  and  once  or  twice  we  saw 

Something  like  a  monstrous  eye, 
Something  like  a  hideous  claw 

Steal  between  us  and  the  sky: 
Still  we  hummed  a  dauntless  tune 

Trying  to  think  such  things  might  be 
Glimpses  of  the  fairy  moon 

Hiding  in  some  hairy  tree. 

Yet  around  us  as  we  went 

Through  the  glades  of  rose  and  blue 
Sweetness  with  the  horror  blent 

Wonder- wild  in  scent  and  hue : 
Here  Aladdin's  cavern  yawned, 

Jewelled  thick  with  gorgeous  dyes; 
There  a  head  of  clover  dawned 

Like  a  cloud  in  eastern  skies. 

Hills  of  topaz,  lakes  of  dew, 

Fairy  cliffs  of  crystal  sheen 
Passed  we;  and  the  forest's  blue 

Sea  of  branches  tossed  between: 
Once  we  saw  a  gryphon  make 

One  soft  iris  as  it  passed 
Like  the  curving  meteor's  wake 

O'er  the  forest,  far  and  fast. 

Winged  with  purple,  breathing  flame, 

Crimson-eyed  we  saw  him  go, 
Where — ah !  could  it  be  the  same 

Cockchafer  we  used  to  know? — 
Valley-lilies  overhead, 

High  aloof  in  clustered  spray, 
Far  through  heaven  their  splendour  spread, 

Glimmering  like  the  Milky  Way. 

Mammoths  father  calls  '"extinct," 
Creatures  that  the  cave-men  feared, 

Through  that  forest  walked  and  blinked, 
Through  that  jungle  crawled  and  leered; 


THE  FOREST  OF  WILD  THYME  139 

Beasts  no  Nimrod   ever  knew, 

Woolly  bears  back  and  red; 
Crocodiles,  we  wondered  who 

Ever  dared  to  see  them  fed, 

Were  they  lizards?     If  they  were, 

They  could  swallow  us  with  ease; 
But  they  slumbered  quietly  there 

In  among  the  mighty  trees; 
Red  and  silver,  blue  and  green, 

Played  the  moonlight  on  their  scales; 
Golden  eyes  they  had,  and  lean 

Crooked  legs  with  cruel  nails. 


Yet  again,  oh,  faint  and  far, 

Came  the  shadow  of  a  cry, 
Like  the  calling  of  a  star 

To  its  brother  in  the  sky; 
Like  an  echo  in  a  cave 

Where  young  mermen  sound  their  shells, 
Like  the  wind  across  a  grave 

Bright  with  scent  of  lily-bells. 


Like  a  fairy  hunter's  horn 

Sounding  in  some  purple  glen 
Sweet  revelly  to  the  morn 

And  the  fairy  quest  again: 
Then,  all  round  it  surged  a  song 

We  could  never  understand 
Though  it  lingered  with  us  long, 

And  it  seemed  so  sad  and  grand. 


SONG 


Little  Boy  Blue,  come  blow  up  your  horn, 
Summon  the  day  of  deliverance  in: 


140  THE  FOREST  OF  WILD  THYME 

We  are  weary  of  bearing  the  burden  of  scorn 
As  we  yearn  for  the  home  that  we  never  shall  win; 

For  here  there  is  weeping  and  sorrow  and  sin. 

And  the  poor  and  the  weak  are  a  spoil  for  the  strong! 

Ah,  when  shall  the  song  of  the  ransomed  begin? 
The  world  is  grown  weary  with  waiting  so  long. 

Little  Boy  Blue,  you  are  gallant  and  brave,  _ 

There  was  never  a  doubt  in  those  clear  bright  eyes. 
Come,  challenge  the  grim  dark  Gates  of  the^  Grave 

As  the  skylark  sings  to  those  infinite  skies! 
This  world  is  a  dream,  say  the  old  and  the  wise, 

And  its  rainbows  arise  o'er  the  false  and  the  true; 
But  the  mists  of  the  morning  are  made  of  our  sighs, — 

Ah,  shatter  them,  scatter  them,  Little  Boy  Blue! 

Little  Boy  Blue,  if  the  child-heart  knows, 

Sound  but  a  note  as  a  little  one  may; 
And  the  thorns  of  the  desert  shall  bloom  with  the  rose, 

And  the  Healer  shall  wipe  all  tears  away; 
Little  Boy  Blue,  we  are  all  astray, 

The  sheep's  in  the  meadow,  the  cow's  in  the  corn, 
Ah,  set  the  world  right,  as  a  little  one  may; 

Little  Boy  Blue,  come  blow  up  your  horn! 

Yes;  and  there  between  the  trees 

Circled  with  a  misty  gleam 
Like  the  light  a  mourner  sees 

Round  an  angel  in  a  dream; 
Was  it  he?  oh,  brave  and  slim, 

Straight  and  clad  in  eery  blue, 
Lifting  to  his  lips  the  dim 

Golden  horn?     We  never  knew! 


Never;  for  a  witch's  hair 
Flooded  all  the  moonlit  sky, 

And  he  vanished,  then  and  there, 
In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye: 


THE  FOREST  OF  WILD  THYME  141 

Just  as  either  boyish  cheek 

Puffed  to  set  the  world  aright, 
Ere  the  golden  horn  could  speak 

Round  him  flowed  the  purple  night. 


At  last  we  came  to  a  round  black  road 

That  tunnelled  through  the  woods  and  showed, 

Or  so  we  thought,  a  good  clear  way 

Back  to  the  upper  lands  of  day; 

Great  silken  cables  overhead 

In  many  a  mighty  mesh  were  spread 

Netting  the  rounded  arch,  no  doubt 

To  keep  the  weight  of  leafage  out. 

And,  as  the  tunnel  narrowed  down, 

So  thick  and  close  the  cords  had  grown 

No  leaf  could  through  their  meshes  stray, 

And  the  faint  moonlight  died  away; 

Only  a  strange  grey  glimmer  shone 

To  guide  our  weary  footsteps  on, 

Until,  tired  out,  we  stood  before 

The  end,  a  great  grey  silken  door. 


Then  from  out  a  weird  old  wicket,  overgrown  with  shaggy 

hair 
Like  a  weird  and  wicked  eyebrow  round  a  weird  and  wicked 
eye, 

Two  great  eyeballs  and  a  beard 

For  one  ghastly  moment  peered 
At  our  faces  with  a  sudden  stealthy  stare: 

Then  the  door  was  open  wide, 

And  a  hideous  hermit  cried 
With  a  shy  and  soothing  smile  from  out  his  lair, 
Won't  you  walk  into  my  parlour?     I  can  make  you  cosy  there! 


142  THE  FOREST  OF  WILD  THYME 

And   we  couldn't  quite   remember  where  we'd   heard   that 

phrase  before, 
As  the  great  grey-bearded  ogre  stood  beside  his  open  door; 
But  an  echo  seemed  to  answer  from  a  land  beyond  the  sky — 
Won't  you  walk  into  my  parlour?    said  the  spider  to  the  fly'. 


Then  we  looked  a  little  closer  at  the  ogre  as  he  stood 
With  his  great  red  e3^eballs  glowing  like  two  torches  in  a  wood, 
And  his  mighty  speckled  belly  and  his  dreadful  clutching  claws 
And  his  nose — a  horny  parrot's  beak,  his  whiskers  and  his 

jaws; 
Yet  he  seemed  so  sympathetic,  and  we  saw  two  tears  descend, 
As  he  murmured,  "I'm  so  ugly,  but   I've   lost  my  dearest 

friend ! 
I  tell  you  most  lymphatic'ly,  I've  yearnings  in  my  soul," — 
And  right  along  his  parrot's  beak  we  saw  the  tear-drops  roll; 
He's  an  arrant  sentimentalist,  we  heard  a  distant  sigh, 
Won't  you  weep  upon  my  bosom?  said  the  spider  to  the  fly. 


"If  you'd  dreamed  my  dreams  of  beauty,  if  you'd  seen  my 

works  of  art, 
If  you'd  felt  the  cruel  hunger  that  is  gnawing  at  my  heart, 
And  the  grief  that  never  leaves  me  and  the  love  I  can't  forget, 
(For  I  loved  with  all   the  letters  in  the  Chinese  alphabet!) 
Oh,  you'd  all  come  in  to  comfort  me:  you  ought  to  help  the 

weak; 
And  I'm  full  of  melting  moments;  and — I — know — the — thing 

— you — seek !" 
And  the  haunting  echo  answered,  Well,  I'm  sure  you  ought  to 

try; 
There's  a  duty  to  one's  neighbour,  said  the  spider  to  the  fly. 


So  we  walked  into  his  parlour 

Though  a  gleam  was  in  his  eye; 
And  it  was  the  prettiest  parlour 
That  ever  we  did  spy! 


THE  FOREST  OF  WILD  THYME  143 

But  we  saw  by  the  uncertain 

Misty  light,  shot  through  with  gleams 
Of  many  a  silken  curtain 

Broidered  o'er  with  dreadful  dreams, 
That  he  locked  the  door  behind  us!     So  we  stood  with  bated 
breath 

In  a  silence  deep  as  death. 


There  were  scarlet  gleams  and  crimson 

Jn  the  curious  foggy  grey, 
Like  the  blood-red  light  that  swims  on 
Old  canals  at  fall  of  day, 
Where  the  smoke  of  some  great  city  loops  and  droops   in 
gorgeous  veils 

Round  the  heavy  purple  barges'  tawny  sails. 


Were  those  creatures  gagged  and  muffled, 

See — there — by  that  severed  head? 
Was  it  but  a  breeze  that  ruffled 

Those  dark  curtains,  splashed  with  red, 
Ruffled  the  dark  figures  on  them,  made  them  moan  like  things 
in  pain? 

How  we  wished  that  we  were  safe  at  home  again. 


"  Oh,  we  want  to  hear  of  Peterkin;  good  sir,  you  say  you  know; 
Won't  you  tell  us,  won't  you  put  us  in  the  way  we  want  to  go?" 
So  we  pleaded,  for  he  seemed  so  very  full  of  sighs  and  tears 
That  we  couldn't  doubt  his  kindness,  and  we  smothered  all 

our  fears; 
But  he  said,  "You  must  be  crazy  if  you  come  to  me  for  help; 
Why  should  I  desire  to  send  you  to  your  horrid  little  whelp?'.' 


144  THE  FOREST  OF  WILD  THYME 

And  again  the  foolish  echo  made  a  far-away  reply, 
Oh,  don't  come  to  me  for  comfort, 
Pray  don't  look  to  me  for  comfort, 

Heavens!  you  mustn't  be  so  selfish,  said  the  spider  to  the  fly. 


"Still,  when  the  King  of  Scotland,  so  to  speak,  was  in  a  hole, 
He  was  aided  by  my  brother;  it's  a  story  to  console 
The  convict  of  the  treadmill  and  the  infant  with  a  sum, 
For  it  teaches  you  to  try  again  until  your  kingdom's  come! 
The  monarch  dawdled  in  that  hole  for  centuries  of  time 
Until  my  own  twin-brother  rose  and  showed  him  how  to 

climb: 
He  showed  him  how  to  swing  and  sway  upon  a  tiny  thread 
Across  a  mighty  precipice,  and  light  upon  his  head 
Without  a  single  fracture  and  without  a  single  pain 
If  he  only  did  it  frequently  and  tried  and  tried  again:" 
And  once  again  the  whisper  like  a  moral  wandered  by, 
Perseverance  is  a  virtue,  said  the  spider  to  the  fly. 


Then  he  moaned,  "My  heart  is  hungry;  but  I  fear  I  cannot 

eat, 
(Of  course  I  speak  entirely  now  of  spiritual  meat!) 
For  I  only  fed  an  hour  ago,  but  if  we  calmly  sat 
While  I  told  you  all  my  troubles  in  a  confidential  chat 
It  would  give  me  such  an  appetite  to  hear  you  sympathise, 
And  I  should  sleep  the  better — see,  the  tears  are  in  my  eyes! 
Dead  yearnings  are  such  dreadful  things,  let's  keep  'em  all 

alive, — ■ 
Let's  sit  and  talk  awhile,  my  dears;  we'll  dine,  I  think,  at 

five." 
And  he  brought  his  chair  beside  us  in  his  most  engaging 

style, 
And  began  to  tell  his  story  with  a  melancholy  smile. — 


"You  remember  Miss  Muffet 
Who  sat  on  a  tuffet 
Partaking  of  curds  and  whey; 


THE  FOREST  OF  WILD  THYME  145 

Well,  I  am  the  spider 
Who  sat  down  beside  her 
And  frightened  Miss  Muffet  away! 


"There  was  nothing  against  her! 
An  elderly  spinster 

Were  such  a  grammatical  mate 
For  a  spider  and  spinner, 
I  swore  I  would  win  her, 

I  knew  I  had  met  with  my  fate! 


"That  love  was  the  purest 
And  strongest  and  surest 

I'd  felt  since  my  first  thread  was  spun; 
I  know  I'm  a  bogey, 
But  she's  an  old  fogey, 

So  why  in  the  world  did  she  run? 


"When  Bruce  was  in  trouble, 
A  spider,  my  double, 

Encouraged  him  greatly,  they  say! 
Now,  why  should  the  spider 
Who  sat  down  beside  her 

Have  frightened  Miss  Muffet  away?" 

He  seemed  to  have  much  more  to  tell, 
But  we  could  scarce  be  listening  well, 
Although  we  tried  with  all  our  might 
To  look  attentive  and  polite; 
For  still  afar  we  heard  the  thin 
Clear  fairy-call  to  Peterkin; 
Clear  as  a  skylark's  mounting  song 
It  drew  our  wandering  thoughts  along. 
Afar,  it  seemed,  yet,  ah,  so  nigh, 
Deep  in  our  dreams  it  scaled  the  sky, 
In  captive  dreams  that  brooked  no  bars 
It  touched  the  love  that  moves  the  stars, 

10 


146  THE  FOREST  OF  WILD  THYME 

And  with  sweet  music's  golden  tether 
It  bound  our  hearts  and  heaven  together. 


SONG 

Wake,  arise,  the  lake,  the  skies 

Fade  into  the  faery  day; 
Come  and  sing  before  our  king, 

Heed  not  Time,  the  dotard  grey; 
Time  has  given  his  crown  to  heaven — 

Ah,  how  long?    Awake,  away! 

Then,  as  the  Hermit  rambled  on 

In  one  long  listless  monotone, 

We  heard  a  wild  and  mournful  groan 

Come  rumbling  down  the  tunnelled  way; 

A  voice,  an  awful  mournful  bray, 

Singing  some  old  funereal  lay; 

Then  solemn  footsteps,  muffled,  dull, 

Approached  as  if  they  trod  on  wool, 

And  as  they  nearer,  nearer  drew, 

We  saw  our  Host  was  listening  too ! 


His  bulging  eyes  began  to  glow 

Like  great  red  match-heads  rubbed  at  night, 
And  then  he  stole  with  a  grim  "O-ho!" 

To  that  grey  old  wicket  where,  out  of  sight, 
Blandly  rubbing  his  hands  and  humming, 
He  could  see,  at  one  glance,  whatever  was  coming. 

He  had  never  been  so  jubilant  or  frolicsome  before, 
As  he  scurried  on  his  cruel  hairy  crutches  to  the  door; 

And  flung  it  open  wide 

And  most  hospitably  cried, 
"Won't  you  walk  into  my  parlour?     I've  some  little  friends 

to  tea, — 
They'll  be  highly  entertaining  to  a  man  of  sympathy, 

Such  as  you  yourself  must  be!" 


THE  FOREST  OF  WILD  THYME  147 

Then  the  man,  for  so  he  seemed, 

(Doubtless  one  who'd  lost  his  way 
And  was  dwarfed  as  we  had  been!) 

In  his  ancient  suit  of  black, 
Black  upon  the  verge  of  green, 

Entered  like  a  ghost  that  dreamed 
Sadly  of  some  bygone  day; 

And  he  never  ceased  to  sing 
In  that  awful  mournful  bray. 

The  door  closed  behind  his  back; 

He  walked  round  us  in  a  ring, 
And  we  hoped  that  he  might  free  us, 

But  his  tears  appeared  to  blind  him, 
For  he  didn't  seem  to  see  us, 

And  the  Hermit  crept  behind  him 
Like  a  cat  about  to  spring. 

And  the  song  he  sang  was  this; 

And  his  nose  looked  very  grand 
As  he  sang  it,  with  a  bliss 

Which  we  could  not  understand; 
For  his  voice  was  very  sad, 
While  his  nose  was  proud  and  glad. 

Rain,  April,  rain,  thy  sunny,  sunny  tears! 
Through  the  black  boughs  the  robe  of  Spring  appears, 
Yet,  for  the  ghosts  of  all  the  bygone  years, 
Rain,  April,  rain. 

Rain,  April,  rain;  the  rose  will  soon  be  glad; 
Spring  will  rejoice,  a  Spring  I,  too,  have  had; 
A  little  while,  till  I  no  more  be  sad, 
Rain,  April,  rain. 

And  then  the  spider  sprang 

Before  we.  could  breathe  or  speak, 
And  one  great  scream  out-rang 

As  the  terrible  horny  beak 


148  THE  FOREST  OF  WILD  THYME 

Crunched  into  the  Sad  Man's  head, 
And  the  terrible  hairy  claws 

Clutched  him  around  his  middle; 
And  he  opened  his  lantern-jaws, 

And  he  gave  one  twist,  one  twiddle, 
One  kick,  and  his  sorrow  was  dead. 


And  there,  as  he  sucked  his  bleeding  prey, 
The  spider  leered  at  us — "You  will  do, 

My  sweet  little  dears,  for  another  day; 
But  this  is  the  sort  I  like;  huh!  huh!" 


And  there  we  stood,  in  frozen  fear, 
Whiter  than  death, 
With  bated  breath; 
And  lo!  as  we  thought  of  Peterkin, 
Father  and  home  and  Peterkin, 
Once  more  that  music  clear  and  thin, 
Clear  as  a  skylark's  mounting  song, 
But  nearer  now,  more  sweet,  more  strong, 
Drew  all  our  wandering  thoughts  along, 
Until  it  seemed,  a  mystic  sea 
Of  hidden  delight  and  harmony 
Began  to  ripple  and  rise  all  round 
The  prison  where  our  hearts  lay  bound; 
And  from  sweet  heaven's  most  rosy  rim 
There  swelled  a  distant  marching  hymn 
Which  made  the  hideous  Hermit  pause 
And  listen  with  lank  down-dropt  jaws, 
Till,  with  great  bulging  eyes  of  fear, 
He  sought  the  wicket  again  to  peer 
Along  the  tunnel,  as  like  sweet  rain 
We  heard  the  still  approaching  strain, 
And,  under  it,  the  rhythmic  beat 
Of  multitudinous  marching  feet. 
Nearer,  nearer,  they  rippled  and  rang, 
And  this  was  the  marching  song  they  sang: 


THE  FOREST  OF  WILD  THYME  149 

SONG 

A  fairy  band  are  we 
In  fairy-land: 

Singing  march  we,  hand  in  hand; 
Singing,  singing  all  day  long: 
(Some  folk  never  heard  a  fairy-song!) 


Singing,  singing, 
When  the  merry  thrush  is  swinging 

On  a  springing  spray; 
Or  when  the  witch  that  lives  in  gloomy  caves 
And  creeps  by  night  among  the  graves 

Calls  a  cloud  across  the  day; 
Cease  we  never  our  fairy  song, 
March  we  ever,  along,  along, 
Doivn  the  dale,  or  up  the  hill, 
Singing,  singing  still. 

And  suddenly  the  Hermit  turned  and  ran  with  all  his  might 
Through  the  back-door  of  his  parlour  as  we  thought  of  little 
Peterkin; 
And  the  great  grey  roof  was  shattered  by  a  shower  of  rosy 

light, 
And  the  spider-house  went  floating,  torn  and  tattered  through 
the  night 
In    a    flight    of  prismy  streamers,  as  a  shout  went  up  for 
Peterkin ; 
And  lo,  the  glistening  fairy-host  stood  there  arrayed  for  fight, 
In  arms    of    rose    and    green  and  gold,  to  lead  us  on  to 
Peterkin. 

And  all  around  us,  rippling  like  a  pearl  and  opal  sea, 

The  host  of  fairy  faces  winked  a  kindly  hint  of  Peterkin; 
And  all  around  the  rosy  glade  a  laugh  of  fairy  glee 
Watched  spider-streamers  floating  up  from  fragrant  tree  to 
tree 
Till  the  moonlight  caught  the  gossamers  and,  oh  we  wished 
for  Peterkin! 


150  THE  FOREST  OF  WILD  THYME 

Each  rope  became  a  rainbow;  but  it  made  us  ache  to  see 
Such  a  fairy  forest-pomp  without  explaining  it  to  Peterkin. 


Then  all  the  glittering  crowd 
With  a  courtly  gesture  bowed 
Like  a  rosy  jewelled  cloud 

Round  a  flame, 
As  the  King  of  Fairy-land, 
Very  dignified  and  grand, 
Stepped  forward  to  demand 

Whence  we  came. 


He'd  a  cloak  of  gold  and  green 
Such  as  caterpillars  spin, 
For  the  fairy  ways,  I  ween, 

Are  very  frugal; 
He'd  a  bow  that  he  had  borne 
Since  the  crimson  Eden  morn, 
And  a  honeysuckle  horn 

For  his  bugle. 


So  we  told  our  tale  of  faery  to  the  King  of  Fairy-land, 

And  asked  if  he  could  let  us  know  the  latest  news  of  Peterkin; 
And  he  turned  him  with  a  courtly  smile  and  waved  his  jewelled 

wand 
And   cried,  Pease-blossom,   Mustard-seed!     You  know   the  old 
command; 
Well;   these   are   little    children;  you   must  lead    them  on    to 
Peterkin. 
Then  he  knelt,  the  King  of  Faery  knelt;  his  eyes  were  great 
and  grand 
As  he  took  our  hands  and  kissed  them,  saying,  Father  loves 
your  Peterkin! 

So  out  they  sprang,  on  either  side, 
A  light  fantastic  fairy  guide, 
To  lead  us  to  the  land  unknown 
Where  little  Peterkin  was  gone; 


THE  FOREST  OF  WILD  THYME  151 

And,  as  we  went  with  timid  pace, 

We  saw  that  every  fairy  face 

In  all  that  moonlit  host  was  wet 

With  tears:  we  never  shall  forget 

The  mystic  hush  that  seemed  to  fade 

Away  like  sound,  as  down  the  glade 

We  passed  beyond  their  zone  of  light. 

Then  through  the  forest's  purple  night 

We  trotted,  at  a  pleasant  speed, 

With  gay  Pease-blossom  and  Mustard-seed. 


PART  IV 
PEASE-BLOSSOM  AND  MUSTARD-SEED 

Shyly  we  surveyed  our  guides 
As  through  the  gloomy  woods  we  went 
In  the  light  that  the  straggling  moonbeams  lent: 

We  envied  them  their  easy  strides! 
Pease-blossom  in  his  crimson  cap 

And  delicate  suit  of  rose-leaf  green, 
His  crimson  sash  and  his  jewelled  dagger, 
Strutted  along  with  an  elegant  swagger 
Which  showed  that  he  didn't  care  one  rap 

For  anything  less  than  a  Fairy  Queen: 
His  eyes  were  deep  like  the  eyes  of  a  poet, 

Although  his  crisp  and  curly  hair 
Certainly  didn't  seem  to  show  it! 

While  Mustard-seed  was  a  devil-may-care 
Epigrammatic  and  pungent  fellow 
Clad  in  a  splendid  suit  of  yellow, 
With  emerald  stars  on  his  glittering  breast 

And  eyes  that  shone  with  a  diamond  light: 
They  made  you  feel  sure  it  would  always  be  best 

To  tell  him  the  truth:  he  was  not  perhaps  quite 
So  polite  as  Pease-blossom,  but  then  who  could  be 
Quite  such  a  debonair  fairy  as  he? 


152  THE  FOREST  OF  WILD  THYME 

We  never  could  tell  you  one-half  that  we  heard 

And  saw  on  that  journey.     For  instance,  a  bird 

Ten  times  as  big  as  an  elephant  stood 

By  the  side  of  a  nest  like  a  great  thick  wood: 

The  clouds  in  glimmering  wreaths  were  spread 

Behind  its  vast  and  shadowy  head 

Which  rolled  at  us  trembling  below.     (Its  eyes 

Were  like  great  black  moons  in  those  pearl-pale  skies.) 

And  we  feared  he  might  take  us,  perhaps,  for  a  worm. 

But  he  ruffled  his  breast  with  the  sound  of  a  storm, 
And  snuggled  his  head  with  a  careless  disdain 
Under  his  huge  hunched  wing  again; 
And  Mustard-seed  said,  as  we  stole  thro'  the  dark, 
There  was  nothing  to  fear:  it  was  only  a  Lark! 

And  so  he  cheered  the  way  along 
With  many  a  neat  little  epigram, 
While  dear  Pease-blossom  before  him  swam 
On  a  billow  of  lovely  moonlit  song, 
Telling  us  why  they  had  left  their  home 
In  Sherwood,  and  had  hither  come 
To  dwell  in  this  magical  scented  clime, 
This  dim  old  Forest  of  sweet  Wild  Thyme. 

"Men  toil,"  he  said,  "from  morn  till  night 
With  bleeding  hands  and  blinded  sight 
For  gold,  more  gold !     They  have  betrayed 
The  trust  that  in  their  souls  was  laid; 
Their  fairy  birthright  they  have  sold 
For  little  disks  of  mortal  gold; 
And  now  they  cannot  even  see 
The  gold  upon  the  greenwood  tree, 
The  wealth  of  coloured  lights  that  pass 
In  soft  gradations  through  the  grass, 
The  riches  of  the  love  untold 
That  wakes  the  day  from  grey  to  gold; 
And  howsoe'er  the  moonlight  weaver 
Magic  webs  among  the  leaver 


THE  FOREST  OF  WILD  THYME  153 

Englishmen  care  little  now 

For  elves  beneath  the  hawthorn  bough: 

Nor  if  Robin  should  return 

Dare  they  of  an  outlaw  learn; 

For  them  the  Smallest  Flower  is  furled, 

Mute  is  the  music  of  the  world; 

And  unbelief  has  driven  away 

Beauty  from  the  blossomed  spray." 

Then  Mustard-seed  with  diamond  eyes 

Taught  us  to  be  laughter-wise, 

And  he  showed  us  how  that  Time 

Is  much  less  powerful  than  a  rhyme; 

And  that  Space  is  but  a  dream; 

"For  look,"  he  said,  with  eyes  agleam, 

"Now  you  are  become  so  small 

You  think  the  Thyme  a  forest  tall; 

But  underneath  your  feet  you  see 

A  world  of  wilder  mystery 

Where,  if  you  were  smaller  yet, 

You  would  just  as  soon  forget 

This  forest,  which  you'd  leave  above 

As  you  have  left  the  home  you  love! 

For,  since  the  Thyme  you  used  to  know 

Seems  a  forest  here  below, 

What  if  you  should  sink  again 

And  find  there  stretched  a  mighty  plain 

Between  each  grass-blade  and  the  next? 

You'd  think  till  you  were  quite  perplexed! 

Especially  if  all  the  flowers 

That  lit  the  sweet  Thyme-forest  bowers 

Were  in  that  wild  transcendent  change 

Turned  to  Temples,  great  and  strange, 

With  many  a  pillared  portal  high 

And  domes  that  swelled  against  the  sky! 

How  foolish,  then,  you  will  agree, 

Are  those  who  think  that  all  must  see 

The  world  alike,  or  those  who  scorn 

Another  who,  perchance,  was  born 

Where — in  a  different  dream  from  theirs— 

What  they  call  sins  to  him  are  prayers! 


154  THE  FOREST  OF  WILD  THYME 

We  cannot  judge;  we  cannot  know; 
All  things  mingle;  all  things  flow; 
There's  only  one  thing  constant  here— 
Love — that  untranscended  sphere: 
Love,  that  while  all  ages  run 
Holds  the  wheeling  worlds  in  one; 
Love  that,  as  your  sages  tell, 
Soars  to  heaven  and  sinks  to  hell." 


Even  as  he  spoke,  we  seemed  to  grow 
Smaller,  the  Thyme  trees  seemed  to  go 
Farther  away  from  us :  new  dreams 
Flashed  out  on  us  with  mystic  gleams 
Of  mighty  Temple-domes:  deep  awe 
Held  us  all  breathless  as  we  saw 
A  carven  portal  glimmering  out 
Between  new  flowers  that  put  to  rout 
Our  other  fancies:  in  sweet  fear 
We  tiptoed  past,  and  seemed  to  hear 
A  sound  of  singing  from  within 
That  told  our  souls  of  Peterkin: 
Our  thoughts  of  him  were  still  the  same 
Howe'er  the  shadows  went  and  came, 
So,  on  we  wandered,  hand  in  hand, 
And  all  the  world  was  fairy-land. 


And  as  we  went  we  seemed  to  hear 

Surging  up  from  distant  dells 
A  solemn  music,  soft  and  clear 

As  if  a  field  of  lily-bells 
Were  tolling  all  together,  sweet 

But  sad  and  low  and  keeping  time 
To  multitudinous  marching  feet 
With  a  slow  funereal  beat 

And  a  deep  harmonious  chime 
That  told  us  by  its  dark  refrain 
The  reason  fairies  suffered  pain. 


THE  FOREST  OF  WILD  THYME  155 


SONG 

Bear  her  along 

Keep  ye  your  song 
Tender  and  sweet  and  low: 

Fairies  must  die! 

Ask  ye  not  why 
Ye  that  have  hurt  her  so. 

Passing  away — flower  from  the  spray!    Colour  and  light  from 

the  leaf! 
Soon,  soon  will  the  year  shed  its  bloom  on  her  bier,  and  the  dust  of 

its  dreams  on  our  grief. 

Men  upon  earth 

Bring  us  to  birth 
Gently  at  even  and  morn! 

When  as  brother  and  brother 

They  greet  one  another 
And  smile — then  a  fairy  is  born! 

But  at  each  cruel  word 

Upon  earth  that  is  heard, 
Each  deed  of  unkindness  or  hate, 

Some  fairy  must  pass 

From  the  games  in  the  grass 
And  steal  thro'  the  terrible  Gate. 

Passing  away — flower  from  the  spray!    Colour  and  light  from 

the  leaf! 
Soon,  soon  will  the  year  shed  its  bloom  on  her  bier,  and  the  dust 

of  its  dreams  on  our  grief. 

If  ye  knew,  if  ye  knew 

All  the  wrong  that  ye  do 
By  the  thought  that  ye  harbour  alone, 

How  the  face  of  some  fairy 

Grows  wistful  and  weary 
And  the  heart  in  her  cold  as  a  stone! 


156  THE  FOREST  OF  WILD  THYME 

Ah,  she  was  born 

Blithe  as  the  morn 
Under  an  April  sky, 

Born  of  the  greeting 

Of  two  lovers  meeting. 
They  parted,  and  so  she  must  die. 

Passing  away — flower  from  the  spray!    Colour  and  light  from 

the  leaf! 
Soon,  soon  will  the  year  shed  its  bloom  on  her  bier,  and  the  dust 

of  its  dreams  on  our  grief. 

Cradled  in  blisses, 

Yea,  born  of  your  kisses. 
Oh,  ye  lovers  that  met  by  the  moon, 

She  would  not  have  cried 

In  the  darkness  and  died 
If  ye  had  not  forgotten  so  soon. 

Cruel  mortals,  they  say, 

Live  for  ever  and  aye, 
And  they  pray  in  the  dark  on  their  knees. 

But  the  flowers  that  are  fled 

And  the  loves  that  are  dead, 
What  heaven  takes  pity  on  these? 

Bear  her  along — singing  your  song — tender  and  sweet  and  low! 
Fairies  must  die!    Ask  ye  not  why — ye  that  have  hurt  her  so. 

Passing  away — 

Flower  from  the  spray ! 
Colour  and  light  from  the  leaf! 

Soon,  soon  will  the  year 

Shed  its  bloom  on  her  bier 
And  the  dust  of  its  dreams  on  our  grief. 


Then  we  came  through  a  glittering  crystal  grot 
By  a  path  like  a  pale  moonbeam, 

And  a  broad  blue  bridge  of  Forget-me-not 
Over  a  shimmering  stream, 


THE  FOREST  OF  WILD  THYME  157 

To  where,  through  the  deep  blue  dusk,  a  gleam 

Rose  like  the  soul  of  the  setting  sun; 
A  sunset  breaking  through  the  earth, 

A  crimson  sea  of  the  poppies  of  dream, 
Deep  as  the  sleep  that  gave  them  birth 

In  the  night  where  all  earthly  dreams  are  done. 

And  then,  like  a  pearl-pale  porch  of  the  moon, 

Faint  and  sweet  as  a  starlit  shrine, 
Over  the  gloom 
Of  the  crimson  bloom 

We  saw  the  Gates  of  Ivory  shine; 
And,  lulled  and  lured  by  the  lullaby  tune 

Of  the  cradling  airs  that  drowsily  creep 
From  blossom  to  blossom,  and  lazily  croon 
Through  the  heart  of  the  midnight's  mystic  noon.. 

We  came  to  the  Gates  of  the  City  of  Sleep. 


Faint  and  sweet  as  a  lily's  repose 

On  the  broad  black  breast  of  a  midnight  lake, 
The  City  delighted  the  cradling  night: 

Like  a  straggling  palace  of  cloud  it  rose; 

The  towers  were  crowned  with  a  crystal  light 
Like  the  starry  crown  of  a  white  snowflake 

As  they  pierced  in  a  wild  white  pinnacled  crowd, 

Through  the  dusky  wreaths  of  enchanted  cloud 
That  swirled  all  round  like  a  witch's  hair. 


And  we  heard,  as  the  sound  of  a  great  sea  sighing, 
The  sigh  of  the  sleepless  world  of  care; 

And  we  saw  strange  shadowy  figures  flying 

Up  to  the  Ivory  Gates  and  beating 

With  pale  hands,  long  and  famished  and  thin; 

Like  blinded  birds  we  saw  them  dash 
Against  the  cruelly  gleaming  wall: 
We  heard  them  wearily  moan  and  call 

With  sharp  starved  lips  for  ever  entreating 
The  pale  doorkeeper  to  let  them  in. 


158  THE  FOREST  OF  WILD  THYME 

And  still,  as  they  beat,  again  and  again, 

We  saw  on  the  moon-pale  lintels  a  splash 
Of  crimson  blood  like  a  poppy-stain 
Or  a  wild  red  rose  from  the  gardens  of  pain 
That  sigh  all  night  like  a  ghostly  sea 
From  the  City  of  Sleep  to  Gethsemane. 

And  lo,  as  we  neared  the  mighty  crowd 

An  old  blind  man  came,  crying  aloud 

To  greet  us,  as  once  the  blind  man  cried 

In  the  Bible  picture — you  know  we  tried 

To  paint  that  print,  with  its  Eastern  sun; 

But  the  reds  and  the  yellows  would  mix  and  run, 

And  the  blue  of  the  sky  made  a  horrible  mess 

Right  over  the  edge  of  the  Lord's  white  dress. 

And  the  old  blind  man,  just  as  though  he  had  eyes, ' 

Came  straight  to  meet  us;  and  all  the  cries 

Of  the  crowd  were  hushed;  and  a  strange  sweet  calm 

Stole  through  the  air  like  a  breath  of  the  balm 

That  was  wafted  abroad  from  the  Forest  of  Thyme 

(For  it  rolled  all  round  that  curious  clime 

With  its  magical  clouds  of  perfumed  trees.) 

And  the  blind  man  cried,  "Our  help  is  at  hand, 

Oh,  brothers,  remember  the  old  command, 

Remember  the  frankincense  and  myrrh, 

Make  way,  make  way  for  those  little  ones  there; 

Make  way,  make  way,  I  have  seen  them  afar 

Under  a  great  white  Eastern  star; 

For  I  am  the  mad  blind  man  who  sees!" 

Then  he  whispered,  softly — Of  such  as  these; 

And  through  the  hush  of  the  cloven  crowd 

We  passed  to  the  gates  of  the  City,  and  there 

Our  fairy  heralds  cried  aloud — 

Open  your  Gates;  don't  stand  and  stare; 

These  are  the  Children  for  whom  our  King 

Made  all  the  star-worlds  dance  in  a  ring! 

And  lo,  like  a  sorrow  that  melts  from  the  heart 
In  tears,  the  slow  gates  melted  apart; 
And  into  the  City  we  passed  like  a  dream; 
And  then,  in  one  splendid  marching  stream 


THE  FOREST  OF  WILD  THYME  159 

The  whole  of  that  host  came  following  through. 

We  were  only  children,  just  like  you; 

Children,  ah,  but  we  felt  so  grand 

As  we  led  them — although  we  could  understand 

Nothing  at  all  of  the  wonderful  song 

That  rose  all  round  as  we  marched  along. 


SONG 

You  that  have  seen  how  the  world  and  its  glory 

Change  and  grow  old  like  the  love  of  a  friend; 
You  that  have  come  to  the  end  of  the  story, 

You  that  were  tired  ere  you  came  to  the  end; 
You  that  are  weary  of  laughter  and  sorrow, 

Pain  and  pleasure,  labour  and  sin, 
Sick  of  the  midnight  and  dreading  the  morrow, 

Ah,  come  in;  come  in. 

You  that  are  bearing  the  load  of  the  ages; 

You  that  have  loved  overmuch  and  too  late; 
You  that  confute  all  the  saivs  of  the  sages; 

You  that  served  only  because  you  must  wait, 
Knowing  your  work  was  a  wasted  endeavour; 

You  that  have  lost  and  yet  triumphed  therein, 
Add  loss  to  your  losses  and  triumph  for  ever; 

Ah,  come  in;  come  in. 

And  we  knew  as  we  went  up  that  twisted  street, 

With  its  violet  shadows  and  pearl-pale  walls, 
We  were  coming  to  Something  strange  and  sweet, 

For  the  dim  air  echoed  with  elfin  calls; 
And,  far  away,  in  the  heart  of  the  City, 

A  murmur  of  laughter  and  revelry  rose, — 
A  sound  that  was  faint  as  the  smile  of  Pity, 

And  sweet  as  a  swan-song's  golden  close. 

And  then,  once  more,  as  we  marched  along, 
There  surged  all  round  us  that  wonderful  song; 
And  it  swung  to  the  tramp  of  our  marching  feet 
But  ah,  it  was  tenderer  now  and  so  sweet 


160  THE  FOREST  OF  WLID  THYME 

That  it  made  our  eyes  grow  wet  and  blind, 
And  the  whole  wide-world  seem  mother-kind, 
Folding  us  round  with  a  gentle  embrace, 
And  pressing  our  souls  to  her  soft  sweet  face. 


SONG 

Dreams;  dreams;  ah,  the  memory  blinding  us, 

Blinding  our  eyes  to  the  way  that  we  go; 
Till  the  new  sorrow  come,  once  more  reminding  us 

Blindly  of  kind  hearts,  ours  long  ago: 
Mother-mine,  whisper  we,  yours  was  the  love  for  me! 

Still,  though  our  paths  He  lone  and  apart, 
Yours  is  the  true  love,  shining  above  for  me, 

Yours  are  the  kind  eyes,  hurting  my  heart. 

Dreams;  dreams;  ah,  how  shall  we  sing  of  them, 

Dreams  that  we  loved  with  our  head  on  her  breast: 
Dreams;  dreams;  and  the  cradle-'sweet  swing  of  them; 

Ay,  for  her  voice  ivas  the  sound  we  loved  best: 
Can  we  remember  at  all  or,  forgetting  it, 

Can  we  recall  for  a  moment  the  gleam 
Of  our  childhood's  delight  and  the  wonder  begetting  it, 

Wonder  awakened  in  dreams  of  a  dreamt 

And  once  again,  from  the  heart  of  the  Citj'- 

A  murmur  of  tenderer  laughter  rose, 
A  sound  that  was  faint  as  the  smile  of  Pity, 

And  sweet  as  a  swan-song's  golden  close; 
And  it  seemed  as  if  some  wonderful  Fair 

Were  charming  the  night  of  the  City  of  Dreams, 
For,  over  the  mystical  din  out  there, 

The  clouds  were  litten  with  flickering  gleams, 
And  a  roseate  light  like  the  day's  first  flush 

Quivered  and  beat  on  the  towers  above, 
And  we  heard  through  the  curious  crooning  hush 

An  elfin  song  that  we  used  to  love. 
Little  Boy  Blue,  come  blow  up  your  horn    .    .    . 

And  the  soft  wind  blew  it  the  other  way; 
So  all  that  we  heard  was — Cow's  in  the  corn; 

But  we  never  heard  anything  half  so  gay! 


THE  FOREST  OF  WILD  THYME  161 

And  ever  we  seemed  to  be  drawing  nearer 

That  mystical  roseate  smoke-wreathed  glare, 
And  the  curious  music  grew  louder  and  clearer, 

Till  mustard-seed  said,  "We  are  lucky,  you  see, 

We've  arrived  at  a  time  of  festivity!" 
And  so  to  the  end  of  the  street  we  came, 

And  turned  a  corner,  and — there  we  were, 
In  a  place  that  glowed  like  the  dawn  of  day, 

A  crowded  clamouring  City  square 
Like  the  cloudy  heart  of  an  opal,  aflame 

With  the  lights  of  a  great  Dream-Fair: 
Thousands  of  children  were  gathered  there, 

Thousands  of  old  men,  weary  and  grey, 
And  the  shouts  of  the  showmen  filled  the  air — 

This  way!     This  way!     This  way! 

And  See-Saw;  Margery  Daw;  we  heard  a  rollicking  shout, 

As  the  swing-boats  hurtled  over  our  heads  to  the  tune  of  the 

roundabout; 
And  Little  Boy  Blue,  come  blow  up  your  horn,  we  heard  the 

showmen  cry, 
And  Dickory  Dock,  Vm  as  good  as  a  clock,  we  heard  the  swings 

reply. 

This  way,  this  wajr  to  your  Heart's  Desire; 

Come,  cast  your  burdens  down; 
And  the  pauper  shall  mount  his  throne  in  the  skies, 

And  the  king  be  rid  of  his  crown: 
And  souls  that  were  dead  shall  be  fed  with  fire 

From  the  fount  of  their  ancient  pain, 
And  your  lost  love  come  with  the  light  in  her  eyes 

Back  to  your  heart  again. 

Ah,  here  be  sure  she  shall  never  prove 

Less  kind  than  her  ej^es  were  bright; 
This  way,  this  way  to  your  old  lost  love, 

You  shall  kiss  her  lips  to-night; 
This  way  for  the  smile  of  a  dead  man's  face 

And  the  grip  of  a  brother's  hand, 
This  way  to  your  childhood's  heart  of  grace 

And  your  home  in  Fairy-land. 
11 


162  THE  FOREST  OF  WILD  THYME 

Dickory  Dock,  I'm  as  good  as  a  clock,  d'you  hear  my  swivels 

chime? 
To  and  fro  as  I  come  and  go,  I  keep  eternal  time. 
0,  little  Bo-peep,  if  you've  lost  your  sheep  and  don't  know  where 

to  find  'em, 
Leave  'em  alone  and  they'll  come  home,  and  carry  their  tails 

behind  'em. 

And  See-Saw;  Margery  Daw;  there  came  the  chorussing  shout, 
As  the  swing-boats  answered  the  roaring  tune  of  the  rollicking 

roundabout; 
Dickory,    dickory,    dickory,    dock,    d'you   hear   my    swivels 

chime? 
Swing;  swing;  you're  as  good  as  a  king  if  you  keep  eternal 

time. 

Then  we  saw  that  the  tunes  of  the  world  were  one; 
And  the  metre  that  guided  the  rhythmic  sun 
Was  at  one,  like  the  ebb  and  the  flow  of  the  sea, 
With  the  tunes  that  we  learned  at  our  mother's  knee; 
The  beat  of  the  horse-hoofs  that  carried  us  down 
To  see  the  fine  Lady  of  Banbury  Town; 
And  so,  by  the  rhymes  that  we  knew,  we  could  tell 
Without  knowing  the  others — that  all  was  well. 

And  then,  our  brains  began  to  spin; 

For  it  seemed  as  if  that  mighty  din 

Were  no  less  than  the  cries  of  the  poets  and  sages 

Of  all  the  nations  in  all  the  ages; 

And,  if  they  could  only  beat  out  the  whole 

Of  their  music  together,  the  guerdon  and  goal 

Of  the  world  would  be  reached  with  one  mighty  shout, 

And  the  dark  dread  secret  of  Time  be  out; 

And  nearer,  nearer  they  seemed  to  climb, 

And  madder  and  merrier  rose  the  song, 
And  the  swings  and  the  see-saws  marked  the  time; 

For  this  was  the  maddest  and  merriest  throng 
That  ever  was  met  on  a  holy-day 
To  dance  the  dust  of  the  world  away; 
And  madder  and  merrier,  round  and  round 
The  whirligigs  whirled  to  the  whirling  sound, 


THE  FOREST  OF  WILD  THYME  163 

Till  it  seemed  that  the  mad  song  burst  its  bars 
And  mixed  with  the  song  of  the  whirling  stars, 
The  song  that  the  rhythmic  Time-Tides  tell 
To  seraphs  in  Heaven  and  devils  in  Hell; 
Ay;  Heaven  and  Hell  in  accordant  chime 
With  the  universal  rhythm  and  rhyme 
Were  nearing  the  secret  of  Space  and  Time; 
The  song  of  that  ultimate  mystery 
Which  only  the  mad  blind  men  who  see, 
Led  by  the  laugh  of  a  little  child, 
Can  utter;  ay,  wilder  and  yet  more  wild 
It  maddened,  till  now — full  song —  it  was  out! 
It  roared  from  the  starry  roundabout — 

A  child  ivas  born  in  Bethlehem,  in  Bethlehem,  in  Bethlehem, 
A  child  was  born  in  Bethlehem;  ah,  hear  my  fairy  fable; 

For  I  have  seen  the  King  of  Kings,  no  longer  thronged  with  angel 
wings, 
But  crooning  like  a  little  babe,  and  cradled  in  a  stable. 

The  wise  men  came  to  greet  him  with  their  gifts  of  myrrh  and 
frankincense, — 
Gold  and  myrrh  and  frankincense  they  brought  to  make  him 
mirth; 
And  would  you  know  the  way  to  win  to  little  brother  Peterkin, 

My  childhood's  heart  shall  guide  you  through  the  glories  of  the 
earth. 

A  child  was  born  in  Bethlehem,,  in  Bethlehem,  in  Bethlehem; 

The  wise  men  came  to  welcome  him:  a  star  stood  o'er  the  gable; 
And  there  they  saiv  the  King  of  Kings,  no  longer  thronged  with 
angel  wings, 

Bid  crooning  like  a  little  babe,  and  cradled  in  a  stable. 

And  creeping  through  the  music  once  again  the  fairy  cry 

Came  freezing  o'er  the  snowy  towers  to  lead  us  on  to  Peterkin: 
Once  more  the  fairy  bugles  blew  from  lands  beyond  the  sky, 
And  we  all  groped  out  together,  dazed  and  blind,  we  knew  not 
why; 


164  THE  FOREST  OF  WILD  THYME 

Out  through  the  City's  farther  gates  we  went  to  look  for 
Peterkin; 
Out,  out  into  the  dark  Unknown,  and  heard  the  clamour  die 
Far,  far  away  behind  us  as  we  trotted  on  to  Peterkin. 

Then  once  more  along  the  rare 
Forest-paths  we  groped  our  way : 
Here  the  glow-worm's  league-long  glare 
Turned  the  Wild  Thyme  night  to  day: 
There  we  passed  a  sort  of  whale 

Sixty  feet  in  length  or  more, 
But  we  knew  it  was  a  snail 
Even  when  we  heard  it  snore. 

Often  through  the  glamorous  gloom 

Almost  on  the  top  of  us 
We  beheld  a  beetle  loom 

Like  a  hippopotamus; 
Once  or  twice  a  spotted  toad 

Like  a  mountain  wobbled  by 
With  a  rolling  moon  that  glowed 

Through  the  skin-fringe  of  its  eye. 

Once  a  caterpillar  bowed 

Down  a  leaf  of  Ygdrasil 
Like  a  sunset-coloured  cloud 

Sleeping  on  a  quiet  hill: 
Once  we  came  upon  a  moth 

Fast  asleep  with  outspread  wings, 
Like  a  mighty  tissued  cloth 

Woven  for  the  feet  of  kings. 

There  above  the  woods  in  state 

Many  a  temple  dome  that  glows 
Delicately  like  a  great 

Rainbow-coloured  bubble  rose: 
Though  they  were  but  flowers  on  earth, 

Oh,  we  dared  not  enter  in; 
For  in  that  divine  re-birth 

Less  than  awe  were  more  than  sin. 


THE  FOREST  OF  WILD  THYME  165 

Yet  their  mystic  anthems  came 

Sweetly  to  our  listening  ears; 
And  their  burden  was  the  same — 

"No  more  sorrow,  no  more  tears! 
Whither  Peterkin  has  gone 

You,  assuredly,  shall  go: 
When  your  wanderings  are  done, 

All  he  knows  you,  too,  shall  know!" 

So  we  thought  we'd  onward  roam 

Till  earth's  Smallest  Flower  appeared. 
With  a  less  tremendous  dome 

Less  divinely  to  be  feared: 
Then,  perchance,  if  we  should  dare 

Timidly  to  enter  in, 
Might  some  kindly  doorkeeper 

Give  us  news  of  Peterkin. 

At  last  we  saw  a  crimson  porch 
Far  away,  like  a  dull  red  torch 
Burning  in  the  purple  gloom; 
And  a  great  ocean  of  perfume 
Rolled  round  us  as  we  drew  anear, 
And  then  we  strangely  seemed  to  hear 
The  shadow  of  a  mighty  psalm, 

A  sound  as  if  a  golden  sea 
Of  music  swung  in  utter  calm 

Against  the  shores  of  Eternity; 
And  then  we  saw  the  mighty  dome 

Of  some  mysterious  Temple  tower 
On  high;  and  knew  that  we  had  come, 

At  last,  to  that  sweet  House  of  Grace 

Which  wise  men  find  in  every  place— 

The  Temple  of  the  Smallest  Flower. 

And  there — alas — our  fairy  friends 
Whispered,  "Here  our  kingdom  ends: 

You  must  enter  in  alone, 
But  your  souls  will  surely  show 

Whither  Peterkin  is  gone 
And  the  road  that  you  must  go: 


166  THE  FOREST  OF  WILD  THYME 

We,  poor  fairies,  have  no  souls ! 

Hark,  the  warning  hare-bell  tolls;" 
So  "Good-bye,  good-bye,"  they  said, 
"Dear  little  seekers-for-the-dead." 
They  vanished;  ah,  but  as  they  went 
We  heard  their  voices  softly  blent 
In  some  mysterious  fairy  song 
That  seemed  to  make  us  wise  and  strong; 

For  it  was  like  the  holy  calm 
That  fills  the  bosomed  rose  with  balm, 
Or  blessings  that  the  twilight  breathes 
Where  the  honeysuckle  wreathes 
Between  young  lovers  and  the  sky 
As  on  banks  of  flowers  they  lie; 
And  with  wings  of  rose  and  green 
Laughing  fairies  pass  unseen, 
Singing  their  sweet  lullaby, — 

Lulla-lulla-lullaby ! 

Lulla-lulla-lullaby ! 

Ah,  good -night,  with  lullaby! 


Only  a  flower?     Those  carven  walls, 
Those  cornices  and  coronals, 
The  splendid  crimson  porch,  the  thin 
Strange  sounds  of  singing  from  within — 
Through  the  scented  arch  we  stept, 

Pushed  back  the  soft  petallic  door, 
And  down  the  velvet  aisles  we  crept; 

Was  it  a  Flower — no  more? 

For  one  of  the  voices  that  we  heard, 

A  child's  voice,  clear  as  the  voice  of  a  bird, 

WTas  it  not? — nay,  it  could  not  be! 

And  a  woman's  voice  that  tenderly 

Answered  him  in  fond  refrain, 

And  pierced  our  hearts  with  sweet  sweet  pain, 

As  if  dear  Mary-mother  hung 

Above  some  little  child,  and  sung. 


THE  FOREST  OF  WILD  THYME  167 

Between  the  waves  of  that  golden  sea 
The  cradle-songs  of  Eternity; 
And,  while  in  her  deep  smile  he  basked, 
Answered  whatsoe'er  he  asked. 


What  is  there  hid  in  the  heart  of  a  rose, 

Mother-mine? 
Ah,  who  knows,  who  knows,  who  knows? 
A  man  that  died  on  a  lonely  hill 
May  tell  you,  perhaps,  but  none  other  will, 

Little  child. 


What  does  it  take  to  make  a  rose, 

Mother-mine? 
The  God  that  died  to  make  it  knows 
It  takes  the  world's  eternal  wars, 
It  takes  the  moon  and  all  the  stars, 
It  takes  the  might  of  heaven  and  hell 
And  the  everlasting  Love  as  well, 

Little  child. 


But  there,  in  one  great  shrine  apart 
Within  the  Temple's  holiest  heart, 
We  came  upon  a  blinding  light, 

Suddenly,  and  a  burning  throne 
Of  pinnacled  glory,  wild  and  white; 

We  could  not  see  Who  reigned  thereon; 
For,  all  at  once,  as  a  wood-bird  sings, 
The  aisles  were  full  of  great  white  wings 
Row  above  mystic  burning  row; 
And  through  the  splendour  and  the  glow 
We  saw  four  angels,  great  and  sweet, 
With  outspread  wings  and  folded  feet, 
Come  gliding  clown  from  a  heaven  within 

The  golden  heart  of  Paradise; 

And  in  their  hands,  with  laughing  eyes. 
Lay  little  brother  Peterkin. 


168  THE  FOREST  OF  WILD  THYME 

And  all  around  the  Temple  of  the  Smallest  of  the  Flowers 

The  glory  of  the  angels  made  a  star  for  little  Peter  kin; 
For  aU  the  Kings  of  Splendour  and  all  the  Heavenly  Powers 
Were  gathered  there  together  in  the  fairy  forest  bowers  \. 
With  all  their  globed  and  radiant  wings  to  make  a  star  for 
Peterkin, 
The  star  that  shone  upon  the  East,  a  star  that  still  is  ours, 
Whene'er  we  hang  our  stockings  up,  a  star  of  wings  for 
Peterkin. 

Then  all,  in  one  great  flash,  was  gone — 
A  voice  cried,  "  Hush,  all's  well!" 

And  we  stood  dreaming  there  alone, 
In  darkness.     Who  can  tell 

The  mystic  quiet  that  we  felt, 

As  if  the  woods  in  worship  knelt  ; 
Far  off  we  heard  a  bell 

Tolling  strange  human  folk  to  prayer 

Through  fields  of  sunset-coloured  air. 

And  then  a  voice,  "  Why,  here  they  are!'? 

And — as  it  seemed — we  woke; 
The  sweet  old  skies,  great  star  by  star 

Upon  our  vision  broke; 
Field  over  field  of  heavenly  blue 
Rose  o'er  us;  then  a  voice  we  knew 

Softly  and  gently  spoke — 
"  See,  they  are  sleeping  by  the  side 
Of  that  dear  little  one — who  died." 

PART  V 
THE  HAPPY  ENDING 

We  told  dear  father  all  our  tale 
That  night  before  we  went  to  bed, 

And  at  the  end  his  face  grew  pale, 
And  he  bent  over  us  and  said 

(WTas  it  not  strange?)  he,  too,  was  there, 
A  weary,  weary  watch  to  keep 
Before  the  gates  of  the  City  of  Sleep; 

But,  ere  we  came,  he  did  not  dare 


THE  FOREST  OF  WILD  THYME  169 

Even  to  dream  of  entering  in, 

Or  even  to  hope  for  Peterkin. 
He  was  the  poor  blind  man,  he  said, 
And  we — how  low  he  bent  his  head ! 
Then  he  called  mother  near;  and  low 
He  whispered  to  us — "Prompt  me  now; 
For  I  forget  that  song  we  heard, 
But  you  remember  every  word." 
Then  memory  came  like  a  breaking  morn, 
And  we  breathed  it  to  him — A  child  was  born! 
And  there  he  drew  us  to  his  breast 
And  softly  murmured  all  the  rest. — 

The  wise  men  came  to  greet  him  with  their  gifts  of  myrrh  and 
frankincense, — 
Gold  and  myrrh  and  frankincense  they  brought  to  make  him 
mirth; 
And  would  you  know  the  way  to  win  to  little  brother  Peterkin, 
My  childhood's  heart  shall  guide  you  through  the  glories  of  the 
earth. 

Then  he  looked  up  and  mother  knelt 
Beside  us,  oh,  her  eyes  were  bright; 
Her  arms  were  like  a  lovely  belt 

All  round  us  as  we  said  Good-night 
To  father:  he  was  crying  now, 
But  they  were  happy  tears,  somehow; 
For  there  we  saw  dear  mother  lay 
Her  cheek  against  his  cheek  and  say — 
Hush,  let  me  kiss  those  tears  away. 

DEDICATION 

What  can  a  wanderer  bring 

To  little  ones  loved  like  you? 
You  have  songs  of  your  own  to  sing 

That  are  far  more  steadfast  and  true, 
Crumbs  of  pity  for  birds 

That  flit  o'er  your  sun-sioept  lawn, 
Songs  that  are  dearer  than  all  our  words 

With  a  love  that  is  clear  as  the  dawn. 


170  THE  FOREST  OF  WILD  THYME 

What  should  a  dreamer  devise, 

In  the  depths  of  his  wayward  will, 
To  deepen  the  gleam  of  your  eyes  \^ 

Who  can  dance  with  the  Sun-child  still? 
Yet  you  glanced  on  his  lonely  way, 

You  cheered  him  in  dream  and  deed, 
And  his  heart  is  o'erflowing,  overflowing  to-day 

With  a  love  that — you  never  will  need. 

What  can  a  pilgrim  teach 

To  dwellers  in  fairy -land? 
Truth  that  excels  all  speech 

You  murmur  and  understand! 
All  he  can  sing  you  he  brings; 

But — one  thing  more  if  he  may, 
One  thing  more  that  the  King  of  Kings 

Will  take  from  the  child  on  the  way. 

Yet  how  can  a  child  of  the  night 

Brighten  the  light  of  the  sun? 
How  can  he  add  a  delight 

To  the  dances  that  never  are  done? 
Ah,  what  if  he  struggles  to  turn 

Once  more  to  the  sweet  old  skies 
With  praise  and  praise,  from  the  fetters  that  burn. 

To  the  God  that  brightened  your  eyes? 

Yes;  he  is  weak,  he  will  fail, 

Yet,  what  if,  in  sorrows  apart, 
One  thing,  one  should  avail, 

The  cry  of  a  grateful  heart; 
It  has  wings:  they  return  through  the  night 

To  a  sky  where  the  light  lives  yet, 
To  the  clouds  that  kneel  on  his  mountain-height 

And  the  path  that  his  feet  forget. 

What  if  he  struggles  and  still 

Fails  and  struggles  again? 
What  if  his  broken  will 

Whispers  the  struggle  is  vain? 


FORTY  SINGING  SEAMEN  171 

Once  at  least  he  has  risen 

Because  he  remembered  your  eyes; 
Once  they  have  brought  to  his  earthly  prison 

The  passion  of  Paradise. 

Kind  little  eyes  that  I  love, 

Eyes  forgetful  of  mine, 
In  a  dream  I  am  bending  above 

Your  sleep,  and  you  open  and  shine; 
And  I  know  as  my  own  grow  blind 

With  a  lonely  prayer  for  your  sake, 
He  will  hear — even  me — little  eyes  that  were  kind, 

God  bless  you,  asleep  or  awake. 


FORTY  SINGING  SEAMEN  AND 
OTHER  POEMS 


TO   GARNETT 


FORTY  SINGING  SEAMEN 

"In  our  lands  be  Beeres  and  Lyons  of  dyvers  colours  as  ye  redd,  grene, 
black,  and  white.  And  in  our  land  be  also  unicornes  and  these  Unicornes 
slee  many  Lyons.  .  .  .  Also  there  dare  no  man  make  a  lye  in  our 
lande,  for  if  he  dyde  he  sholde  incontynent  be  sleyn." — Medicsval  Epistle, 
of  Pope  Prester  John. 


Across  the  seas  of  Wonderland  to  Mogadore  we  plodded, 

Forty  singing  seamen  in   an  old  black  barque, 
And  we  landed  in  the  twilight  where  a  Polyphemus  nodded 
With  his  battered  moon-eye  winking  red  and  yellow  through 
the  dark! 
For  his  eye  was  growing  mellow, 
Rich  and  ripe  and  red  and  yellow, 
As  was  time,  since  old  Ulysses  made  him  bellow  in  the  dark ! 
Cho. — Since  Ulysses  bunged  his  eye  up  with  a  pine-torch  in 
the  dark! 


172  FORTY  SINGING  SEAMEN 

II 

Were  they  mountains  in  the  gloaming  or  the  giant's  ugly 
shoulders 
Just  beneath  the  rolling  eyeball,  with  its  bleared  and  vinous 
glow, 
Red  and  yellow  o'er  the  purple  of  the  pines  among  the  boulders 
And  the  shaggy  horror  brooding  on  the  sullen  slopes  below, 
Were  they  pines  among  the  boulders 
Or  the  hair  upon  his  shoulders? 
We  were  only  simple  seamen,  so  of  course  we  didn't  know. 
Cho. — We  were  simple  singing  seamen,  so  of  course  we  couldn't 
know. 


Ill 

But  we  crossed  a  plain  of  poppies,  and  we  came  upon  a  fountain 

Not  of  water,  but  of  jewels,  like  a  spray  of  leaping  fire; 
And  behind  it,  in  an  emerald  glade,  beneath  a  golden  mountain 
There  stood  a  crystal  palace,  for  a  sailor  to  admire ; 
For  a  troop  of  ghosts  came  round  us, 
Which  with  leaves  of  bay  they  crowned  us, 
Then  with  grog  they  well  nigh  drowned  us,  to  the  depth  of 
our  desire ! 
Cho. — And  'twas  very  friendly  of  them,  as  a  sailor  can  admire ! 


IV 

There  was  music  all  about  us,  we  were  growing  quite  forgetful 
We  were  only  singing  seamen  from  the  dirt  of  London-town, 
Though  the  nectar  that  we  swallowed  seemed  to  vanish  half 
regretful 
As  if  we  wasn't  good  enough  to  take  such  vittles  down, 
When  we  saw  a  sudden  figure, 
Tall  and  black  as  any  nigger, 
Like  the  devil — only  bigger — drawing  near  us  with  a  frown ! 
Cho. — Like  the  devil — but  much  bigger — and  he  wore  a  golden 
crown ! 


FORTY  SINGING  SEAMEN  173 

V 

And"  What's  all  this?"  he  growls  at  us!    With  dignity  we 
chaunted, 
"Forty  singing  seamen,  sir,  as  won't  be  put  upon!" 
"What?     Englishmen?"  he  cries,   "Well,   if  ye  don't  mind 
being  haunted, 
Faith  you're  welcome  to  my  palace;  I'm  the  famous  Prester 
John ! 
Will  ye  walk  into  my  palace? 
I  don't  bear  'ee  any  malice! 
One  and  all  ye  shall  be  welcome  in  the  halls  of  Prester 
John!" 
Cho. — So  we  walked  into  the  palace  and  the  halls  of  Prester 
John ! 


VI 

Now  the  door  was  one  great  diamond  and  the  hall  a  hollow 
ruby — 
Big  as  Beachy  Head,  my  lads,  nay  bigger  by  a  half! 
And  I  sees  the  mate  wi'  mouth  agape,  a-staring  like  a  booby, 
And  the  skipper  close  behind  him,  with  his  tongue  out  like  a 
calf! 
Now  the  way  to  take  it  rightly 
Was  to  walk  along  politely 
Just  as  if  you  didn't  notice — so  I  couldn't  help  but  laugh ! 
C)w. — For  they  both  forgot  their  manners  and  the  crew  was 
bound  to  laugh ! 


VII 

But  he  took  us  through  his  palace  and,  my  lads,  as  I'm  a  sinner, 

We  walked  into  an  opal  like  a  sunset-coloured  cloud — 
"My  dining-room,"  he  says,  and,  quick  as  light  we  saw  a 
dinner 
Spread  before  us  by  the  fingers  of  a  hidden  fairy  crowd; 
And  the  skipper,  swaying  gently 
After  dinner,  murmurs  faintly, 


174  FORTY  SINGING  SEAMEN 

"I  looks  to-wards  you,  Prester  John,  you've  done  us  very' 
proud!" 
Cho. — And  we  drank  his  health  with  honours,  for  he  done  us 
very  proud ! 


VIII 

Then  he  walks  us  to  his  garden  where  we  sees  a  feathered 
demon 
Very  splendid  and  important  on  a  sort  of  spicy  tree ! 
"That's  the  Phcenix,"  whispers  Prester,  "which  all  eddicated 
seamen 
Knows  the  only  one  existent,  and  he's  waiting  for  to  flee! 
When  his  hundred  years  expire 
Then  he'll  set  hisself  a-fire 
And  another  from  his  ashes  rise  most  beautiful  to  see ! " 
Cho. — With  wings  of  rose  and  emerald  most  beautiful  to  see! 


IX 

'Then  he  says,  "In  younder  forest  there's  a  little  silver  river, 

And  whosoever  drinks  of  it,  his  youth  shall  never  die ! 
The  centuries  go  by,  but  Prester  John  endures  for  ever 

With  his  music  in  the  mountains  and  his  magic  on  the  sky! 
While  your  hearts  are  growing  colder, 
While  your  world  is  growing  older, 
There's  a  magic  in  the  distance,  where  the  sea-line  meets 
the  sky." 
Cho. — It  shall  call  to  singing  seamen  till  the  fount  o'  song  is 
dry! 


X 

So  we  thought  we'd  up  and  seek  it,  but  that  forest  fair  defied 

us, — 

First  a  crimson  leopard  laughs  at  us  most  horrible  to  see, 

Then  a  sea-green  lion  came  and  sniffed  and  licked  his  chops 

and  eyed  us, 

While  a  red  and  yellow  unicorn  was  dancing  round  a  tree ! 


THE  EMPIRE  BUILDERS  175 

We  was  trying  to  look  thinner, 
Which  was  hard,  because  our  dinner 
Must  ha'  made  us  very  tempting  to  a  cat  o'  high  degree! 
Cho. — Must    ha'    made    us    very    tempting    to    the    whole 
menarjeree! 


XI 

So  we  scuttled  from  that  forest  and  across  the  poppy  meadows 
Where  the  awful  shaggy  horror  brooded  o'er  us  in  the  dark ! 
And  we  pushes  out  from  shore  again  a-jumping  at  our  shadows, 
And  pulls  away  most  joyful  to  the  old  black  barque! 
And  home  again  we  plodded 
While  the  Polyphemus  nodded 
With  his  battered  moon-eye  winking  red  and  yellow  through 
the  dark. 
Cho. — Oh,  the  moon  above  the  mountains,  red  and  yellow 
through  the  dark! 

XII 

Across  the  seas  of  Wonderland  to  London-town  we  blundered, 

Forty  singing  seamen  as  was  puzzled  for  to  know 
If  the  visions  that  we  saw  was  caused  by — here  again  we 
pondered — 
A  tipple  in  a  vision  forty  thousand  years  ago. 
Could  the  grog  we  dreamt  we  swallowed 
Make  us  dream  of  all  that  followed? 
We  were  only  simple  seamen,  so  of  course  we  didn't  know! 
Cho. — We  were  simple  singing  seamen,  so  of  course  we  could 
not  know! 


THE  EMPIRE  BUILDERS 

Who  are  the  Empire-builders?     They 
Whose  desperate  arrogance  demands 

A  self-reflecting  power  to  sway 
A  hundred  little  selfless  lands? 


176  THE  EMPIRE  BUILDERS 

Lord  God  of  battles,  ere  we  bow 
To  these  and  to  their  soulless  lust, 

Let  fall  Thy  thunders  on  us  now 
And  strike  us  equal  to  the  dust. 

Before  the  stars  in  heaven  were  made 

Our  great  Commander  led  us  forth; 
And  now  the  embattled  lines  are  laid 

To  East,  to  West,  to  South,  to  North; 
According  as  of  old  He  planned 

We  take  our  station  in  the  field, 
Nor  dare  to  dream  we  understand 

The  splendour  of  the  swords  we  wield. 

We  know  not  what  the  Soul  intends 

That  lives  and  moves  behind  our  deeds; 
We  wheel  and  march  to  glorious  ends 

Beyond  the  common  soldier's  needs: 
And  some  are  raised  to  high  rewards, 

And  some  by  regiments  are  hurled 
To  die  upon  the  opposing  swords 

And  sleep — forgotten  by  the  world. 

And  not  where  navies  churn  the  foam, 

Nor  called  to  fields  of  fierce  emprize, 
In  many  a  country  cottage-home 

The  Empire-builder  lives  and  dies: 
Or  through  the  roaring  streets  he  goes 

A  lean  and  weary  City  slave, 
The  conqueror  of  a  thousand  foes 

Who  walks,  unheeded,  to  his  grave. 

Leaders  unknown  of  hopes  forlorn 

Go  past  us  in  the  daily  mart, 
With  many  a  shadowy  crown  of  thorn 

And  many  a  kingly  broken  heart: 
Though  England's  banner  overhead 

Ever  the  secret  signal  flew, 
We  only  see  its  Cross  is  red 

As  children  see  the  skies  are  blue. 


NELSON'S  YEAR  177 

For  all  are  Empire-builders  here, 

Whose  hearts  are  true  to  heaven  and  home 
And,  year  by  slow  revolving  year, 

Fulfil  the  duties  as  they  come; 
So  simple  seems  the  task,  and  yet 

Many  for  this  are  crucified; 
Ay,  and  their  brother-men  forget 

The  simple  wounds  in  palm  and  side. 


But  he  that  to  his  home  is  true, 

Where'er  the  tides  of  power  may  flow, 
Has  built  a  kingdom  great  and  new 

Which  Time  nor  Fate  shall  overthrow 
These  are  the  Empire-builders,  these 

Annex  where  none  shall  say  them  nay 
Beyond  the  world's  uncharted  seas 

Realms  that  can  never  pass  away. 


NELSON'S  YEAR 
(1905) 


"Hasten  the  Kingdom,  England!" 
This  year,  a  hundred  years  ago, 
The  world  attended,  breathless,  on  the  gathering  pomp  of  war, 
While  England  and  her  deathless  dead,  with  all  their  mighty 
hearts  aglow, 
Swept  onward  like  the  dawn  of  doom  to  triumph  at  Trafalgar; 
Then  the  world  was  hushed  to  wonder 
As  the  cannon's  dying  thunder 
Broke  out  again  in  muffled  peals  across  the  heaving  sea, 
And  home  the  Victor  came  at  last, 
Home,  home,  with  England's  flag  half-mast, 
That  never  dipped  to  foe  before,  on  Nelson's  Victory. 
12 


178  NELSON'S  YEAR 

II 

God  gave  this  year  to  England; 
And  what  He  gives  He  takes  again; 
He  gives  us  life,  He  gives  us  death:  our  victories  have  wings; 
He  gives  us  love  and  in  its  heart  He  hides  the  whole  world's 
heart  of  pain: 
We  gain  by  loss :  impartially  the  eternal  balance  swings ! 
Ay;  in  the  fire  we  cherish 
Our  thoughts  and  dreams  may  perish; 
Yet  shall  it  burn  for  England's  sake  triumphant  as  of  old ! 
What  sacrifice  could  gain  for  her 
Our  own  shall  still  maintain  for  her, 
And  hold  the  gates  of  Freedom  wide  that  take  no  keys  of  gold. 


Ill 

God  gave  this  year  to  England; 

Her  eyes  are  far  too  bright  for  tears 
Of  sorrow;  by  her  silent  dead  she  kneels,  too  proud  for  pride; 
Their  blood,  their  love,  have  bought  her  right  to  claim  the 
new    imperial    years 
In  England's  name  for  Freedom,  in  whose  love  her  children 
died; 
In  whose  love,  though  hope  may  dwindle, 
Love  and  brotherhood  shall  kindle 
Between  the  striving  nations  as  a  choral  song  takes  fire, 
Till  new  hope,  new  faith,  new  wonder 
Cleave  the  clouds  of  doubt  asunder, 
And  speed  the  union  of  mankind  in  one  divine  desire. 


IV 

Hasten  the  Kingdom,  England ; 
This  year  across  the  listening  world 
There  came  a  sound  of  mingled  tears  where  victory  and  defeat 
Clasped  hands;  and  Peace —  among  the  dead —  stood  wist- 
fully, with  white  wings  furled, 
Knowing  the  strife  was  idle;  for  the  night  and  morning  meet, 


NELSON'S  YEAR  179 

Yet  there  is  no  disunion 
In  heaven's  divine  communion 
As  through  the  gates  of  twilight  the  harmonious  morning 
pours; 
Ah,  God  speed  that  grander  morrow 
When  the  world's  divinest  sorrow 
Shall  show  how  Love  stands  knocking  at  the  world's  unopened 
doors. 


Hasten  the  Kingdom,  England; 
Look  up  across  the  narrow  seas, 
Across  the  great  white  nations  to  thy  dark  imperial  throne 
Where  now  three  hundred  million  souls  attend  on  thine 
august  decrees; 
Ah,  bow  thine  head  in  humbleness,  the  Kingdom  is  thine  own : 
Not  for  the  pride  or  power 
God  gave  thee  this  in  dower; 
But,  now  the  West  and  East  have  met  and  wept  their  mortal 
loss, 
Now  that  their  tears  have  spoken 
And  the  long  dumb  spell  is  broken, 
Is  it  nothing  that  thy  banner  bears  the  red  eternal  cross? 


VI 

Ay!    Lift  the  flag  of  England; 
And  lo,  that  Eastern  cross  is  there, 
Veiled  with  a  hundred  meanings  as  our  English  eyes  are  veiled  ; 
Yet  to  the  grander  dawn  we  move  oblivious  of  the  sign  we 
bear, 
Oblivious  of  the  heights  we  climb  until  the  last  be  scaled; 
Then  with  all  the  earth  before  us 
And  the  great  cross  floating  o'er  us 
We  shall  break  the  sword  we  forged  of  old,  so  weak  we  were 
and  blind; 
While  the  inviolate  heaven  discloses 
England's  Rose  of  all  the  roses 
Dawning  wide  and  ever  wider  o'er  the  kingdom  of  mankind.  ' 


180  IN  TIME  OF  WAR 

VII 

Hasten  the  Kingdom,  England; 
For  then  all  nations  shall  be  one; 
One  as  the  ordered  stars  are  one  that  sing  upon  their  way, 
One  with  the  rhythmic   glories   of  the  swinging  sea  and 
the  rolling  sun, 
One  with  the  flow  of  life  and  death,  the  tides  of  night  and  day ; 
One  with  all  dreams  of  beauty, 
One  with  all  laws  of  duty; 
One  with  the  weak  and  helpless  while  the  one  sky  burns  above; 
Till  eyes  by  tears  made  glorious 
Look  up  at  last  victorious, 
And  lips  that  starved  break  open  in  one  song  of  life  and  love. 

VIII 

Hasten  the  Kingdom,  England; 
And  when  the  Spring  returns  again 
Rekindle  in  our  English  hearts  the  universal  Spring, 

That  we  may  wait  in  faith  upon  the  former  and  the  latter 
rain, 
Till  all  waste  places  burgeon  and  the  wildernesses  sing; 
Pour  the  glory  of  thy  pity 
Through  the  dark  and  troubled  city; 
Pour  the  splendour  of  thy  beauty  over  wood  and  meadow 
fair; 
May  the  God  of  battles  guide  thee 
And  the  Christ-child  walk  beside  thee 
With  a  word  of  peace  for  England  in  the  dawn  of  Nelson's 
Year. 


IN  TIME  OF  WAR 


To-night  o'er  Bagshot  heath  the  purple  heather 
Rolls  like  dumb  thunder  to  the  splendid  West; 

And  mighty  ragged  clouds  are  massed  together 
Above  the  scarred  old  common's  broken  breast; 


IN  TIME  OF  WAR  181 

And  there  are  hints  of  blood  between  the  boulders, 
Red  glints  of  fiercer  blossom,  bright  and  bold ; 

And  round  the  shaggy  mounds  and  sullen  shoulders 
The  gorse  repays  the  sun  with  savage  gold. 

And  now,  as  in  the  West  the  light  grows  holy, 

And  all  the  hollows  of  the  heath  grow  dim, 
Far  off,  a  sulky  rumble  rolls  up  slowly 

Where  guns  at  practice  growl  their  evening  hymn. 

And  here  and  there  in  bare  clean  yellow  spaces 
The  print  of  horse-hoofs  like  an  answering  cry 

Strikes  strangely  on  the  sense  from  lonely  places 
Where  there  is  nought  but  empty  heath  and  sky. 

The  print  of  warlike  hoofs,  where  now  no  figure 

Of  horse  or  man  along  the  sky's  red  rim 
Breaks  on  the  low  horizon's  rough  black  rigour 

To  make  the  gorgeous  waste  less  wild  and  grim; 

Strangely  the  hoof-prints  strike,  a  Crusoe's  wonder, 
Framed  with  sharp  furze  amongst  the  footless  fells, 

A  menace  and  a  mystery,  rapt  asunder, 

As  if  the  whole  wide  world  contained  nought  else, — 

Nought  but  the  grand  despair  of  desolation 
Between  us  and  that  wild,  how  far,  how  near, 

Where,  clothed  with  thunder,  nation  grapples  nation, 
And  Slaughter  grips  the  clay-cold  hand  of  Fear. 


II 

And  far  above  the  purple  heath  the  sunset  stars  awaken, 
And  ghostly  hosts  of  cloud  across  the  West  begin  to  stream, 

And  all  the  low  soft   winds   with   muffled   cannonades  are 
shaken, 
And  all  the  blood-red  blossom  draws  aloof  into  a  dream ; 


182  IN  TIME  OF  WAR 

A  dream — no  more — and  round  the  dream  the  clouds  are 
curled  together; 
A  dream  of  two  great  stormy  hosts  embattled  in  the  sky; 
For  there  against  the  low  red  heavens  each  sombre  ridge  of 
heather 
Up-heaves  a  hedge  of  bayonets  around  a  battle-cry; 


Melts  in  the  distant  battlefield  or  brings  the  dream  so  near  it 

That,  almost,  as  the  rifted  clouds  around  them  swim  and  reel, 

A  thousand  grey-lipped  faces  flash — ah,  hark,  the  heart  can 

hear  it — 

The  sharp  command  that  lifts  as  one  the  levelled  lines  of 

steel. 


And  through  the  purple  thunders  there  are  silent  shadows 
creeping 
With  murderous  gleams  of  light,  and  then — a  mighty  leaping 
roar 
Where  foe  and  foe  are  met;  and  then — a  long  low  sound  of 
weeping 
As  Death  laughs  out  from  sea  to  sea,  another  fight  is  o'er. 


Another  fight — but  ah,  how  much  is  over?     Night  descending 

Draws   o'er   the   scene   her   ghastly   moon-shot   veil   with 

piteous  hands; 

But  all  around  the  bivouac-glare  the  shadowy  pickets  wending 

See   sights,   hear  sounds   that   only   war's   own    madness 

understands. 


No    circle    of    the    accursed    dead    where    dreaming  Dante 
wandered, 
No  city  of  death's  eternal  dole  could  match  this  mortal 
world 
Where  men,  before  the  living  soul  and  quivering  flesh  are 
sundered, 
Through  all  the  bestial  shapes  of  pain  to  one  wide  grave  are 
hurled. 


IN  TIME  OF  WAR  183 

But  in  the  midst  for  those  who  dare  beyond  the  fringe  to  enter 
Be  sure  one  kingly  figure  lies  with  pale  and  blood-soiled 
face, 
And  round  his  brows  a  ragged  crown  of  thorns;  and  in  the 
centre 
Of  those  pale  folded  hands  and  feet  the  sigil  of  his  grace. 

See,  how  the  pale  limbs,  marred  and  scarred  in  love's  lost 
battle,  languish; 
See  how  the  splendid  passion  still  smiles  quietly  from  his 
eyes: 
Come,  come  and  see  a  king  indeed,   who  triumphs  in  his 
anguish, 
Who  conquers  here  in  utter  loss  beneath  the  eternal  skies. 

For  unto  lips  so  deadly  calm  what  answer  shall  be  given? 

Oh  pale,  pale  king  so  deadly  still  beneath  the  unshaken  stars, 
Who  shall  deny  thy  kingdom  here,  though  heaven  and  earth 
were  riven, 

With  the  last  roar  of  onset  in  the  world's  intestine  wars? 

The  laugh  is  Death's;  he  laughs  as  erst  o'er  hours  that  England 
cherished, 
"Count  up,  count  up  the  stricken  homes  that  wail  the  first- 
born son, 
Count  by  your  starved  and  fatherless  the  tale  of  what  hath 
perished; 
Then  gather  with  your  foes  and  ask  if  you — or  I — have  won." 


Ill 

The  world  rolls  on;  and  love  and  peace  are  mated: 
Still  on  the  breast  of  England,  like  a  star, 

The  blood-red  lonely  heath  blows,  consecrated, 
A  brooding  practice-ground  for  blood-red  war. 

Yet  is  tljere  nothing  out  of  tune  with  Nature 

There,  where  the  skylark  showers  his  earliest  song, 

Where  sun  and  wind  have  moulded  every  feature, 
And  one  world-music  bears  each  note  along. 


184  IN  TIME  OF  WAR 

There  many  a  brown-winged  kestrel  swoops  or  hovers 
In  poised  and  patient  quest  of  his  own  prey; 

And  there  are  fern-clad  glens  where  happy  lovers 
May  kiss  the  murmuring  summer  noon  away. 

There,  as  the  primal  earth  was — all  is  glorious 
Perfect  and  wise  and  wonderful  in  view 

Of  that  great  heaven  through  which  we  rise  victorious 
O'er  all  that  strife  and  change  and  death  can  do. 

No  nation  yet  has  risen  o'er  earth's  first  nature; 

Though  love  illumed  each  individual  mind, 
Like  some  half-blind,  half-formed  primeval  creature 

The  State  still  crawled  a  thousand  years  behind. 

Still  on  the  standards  of  the  great  World-Powers 
Lion  and  bear  and  eagle  sullenly  brood, 

Whether  the  slow  folds  flap  o'er  halcyon  hours 
Or  stream  tempestuously  o'er  fields  of  blood. 

By  war's  red  evolution  we  have  risen 

Far,  since  fierce  Erda  chose  her  conquering  few, 

And  out  of  Death's  red  gates  and  Time's  grey  prison 
They  burst,  elect  from  battle,  tried  and  true. 

But  now  Death  mocks  at  youth  and  love  and  glory, 
Chivalry  slinks  behind  his  loaded  mines, 

With  meaner  murderous  lips  War  tells  her  story, 
And  round  her  cunning  brows  no  laurel  shines. 

And  here  to  us  the  eternal  charge  is  given 

To  rise  and  make  our  low  world  touch  God's  high: 

To  hasten  God's  own  kingdom,  Man's  own  heaven, 
And  teach  Love's  grander  army  how  to  die. 

No  kingdom  then,  no  long-continuing  city    , 
Shall  e'er  again  be  stablished  by  the  sword; 

No  blood-bought  throne  defy  the  powers  of  pity, 
No  despot's  crown  outweigh  one  helot's  word. 


IN  TIME  OF  WAR  185 

Imperial  England,  breathe  thy  marching  orders : 
The  great  host  waits;  the  end,  the  end  is  close, 

When  earth  shall  know  thy  peace  in  all  her  borders, 
And  all  her  deserts  blossom  with  thy  Rose. 


Princedoms  and  peoples  rise  and  flash  and  perish 
As  the  dew  passes  from  the  flowering  thorn; 

Yet  the  one  Kingdom  that  our  dreams  still  cherish 
Lives  in  a  light  that  blinds  the  world's  red  morn. 

Hasten  the  Kingdom,  England,  the  days  darken; 

We  would  not  have  thee  slacken  watch  or  ward, 
Nor  doff  thine  armour  till  the  whole  world  hearken, 

Nor  till  Time  bid  thee  lay  aside  the  sword. 

Hasten  the  Kingdom;  hamlet,  heath,  and  city, 
We  are  all  at  war,  one  bleeding  bulk  of  pain; 

Little  we  know;  but  one  thing — by  God's  pity — 
We  know,  and  know  all  else  on  earth  is  vain. 

We  know  not  yet  how  much  we  dare,  how  little; 

We  dare  not  dream  of  peace;  yet,  as  at  need, 
England,  God  help  thee,  let  no  jot  or  tittle 

Of  Love's  last  law  go  past  thee  without  heed. 

Who  saves  his  life  shall  lose  it!    The  great  ages 
Bear  witness — Rome  and  Babylon  and  Tyre 

Cry  from  the  dust-stopped  lips  of  all  their  sages, — 
There  is  no  hope  if  man  can  climb  no  higher. 

England,  by  God's  grace  set  apart  to  ponder 
A  little  while  from  battle,  ah,  take  heed, 

Keep  watch,  keep  watch,  beside  thy  sleeping  thunder; 
Call  down  Christ's  pity  while  those  others  bleed; 

Waken  the  God  within  thee,  while  the  sorrow 
Of  battle  surges  round  a  distant  shore, 

While  Time  is  thine,  lest  on  some  deadly  morrow 
The  moving  finger  write — but  thine  no  more. 


186         SEVENTIETH  BIRTHDAY  OF  SWINBURNE 

Little  we  know — but  though  the  advancing  seons 

Win  every  painful  step  by  blood  and  fire, 
Though  tortured  mouths  must  chant  the  world's  great  paeans, 

And  martyred  souls  proclaim  the  world's  desire; 


Though  war  be  nature's  engine  of  rejection. 
Soon,  soon,  across  her  universal  verge 

The  soul  of  man  in  sacred  insurrection 
Shall  into  God's  diviner  light  emerge. 


Hasten  the  Kingdom,  England,  queen  and  mother; 

Little  we  know  of  all  Time's  works  and  ways; 
Yet  this,  this,  this  is  sure:  we  need  none  other 

Knowledge  or  wisdom,  hope  or  aim  or  praise, 


But  to  keep  this  one  stormy  banner  flying 
In  this  one  faith  that  none  shall  e'er  disprove, 

Then  drive  the  embattled  world  before  thee,  crying, 
There  is  one  Emperor,  whose  name  is  Love. 


ODE  FOR  THE  SEVENTIETH  BIRTHDAY     OF 
SWINBURNE 


He  needs  no  crown  of  ours,  whose  golden  heart 
Poured  out  its  wealth  so  freely  in  pure  praise 
Of  others :  him  the  imperishable  bays 
Crown,  and  on  Sunium's  height  he  sits  apart: 
He  hears  immortal  greetings  this  great  morn: 
Fain  would  we  bring,  we  also,  all  we  may, 
Some  wayside  flower  of  transitory  bloom, 
Frail  tribute,  only  born 
To  greet  the  gladness  of  this  April  day 

Then  waste  on  death's  dark  wind  its  faint  perfume. 


SEVENTIETH  BIRTHDAY  OF  SWINBURNE        187 

II 

Here  on  this  April  day  the  whole  sweet  Spring 
Speaks  thro'  his  music  only,  or  seems  to  speak. 
And  we  that  hear,  with  hearts  uplift  and  weak, 
What  can  we  more  than  claim  him  for  our  king? 
Here  on  this  April  day  (and  many  a  time 
Shall  April  come  and  find  him  singing  still) 

He  is  one  with  the  world's  great  heart  beyond  the  years, 
One  with  the  pulsing  rhyme 
Of  tides  that  work  some  heavenly  rhythmic  wil1 
And  hold  the  secret  of  all  human  tears. 


Ill 

For  he,  the  last  of  that  immortal  race 
Whose  music,  like  a  robe  of  living  light 
Re-clothed  each  new-born  age  and  made  it  bright 
As  with  the  glory  of  Love's  transfiguring  face, 
Reddened  earth's  roses,  kindled  the  deep  blue 
Of  England's  radiant,  ever-singing  sea, 

Recalled  the  white  Thalassian  from  the  foam. 
Woke  the  dim  stars  anew 
And  triumphed  in  the  triumph  of  Liberty, 

We  claim  him;  but  he  hath  not  here  his  home. 


IV 

Not  here;  round  him  to-day  the  clouds  divide: 
We  know  what  faces  thro'  that  rose-flushed  air 
Now  bend  above  him:  Shelley's  face  is  there, 
And  Hugo's,  fit  with  more  than  kingly  pride. 
Replenished  there  with  splendour,  the  blind  eyes 
Of  Milton  bend  from  heaven  to  meet  his  own, 

Sappho  is  there,  crowned  with  those  queenlier  flowers 
Whose  graft  outgrew  our  skies, 
His  gift :  Shakespeare  leans  earthward  from  his  throne  - 
With  hands  outstretched.     He  needs  no  crown  of  ours. 


X88  IN  CLOAK  OF  GREY 

IN  CLOAK  OF  GREY 


Love's  a  pilgrim,  cloaked  in  grey, 

And  his  feet  are  pierced  and  bleeding: 

Have  ye  seen  him  pass  this  way 
Sorrowfully  pleading? 

Ye  that  weep  the  world  away, 

Have  ye  seen  King  Love  to-day? — 


II 


Yea,  we  saw  him;  but  he  came 
Poppy-crowned  and  white  of  limb ! 

Song  had  touched  his  lips  with  flame, 
And  his  eyes  were  drowsed  and  dim; 

And  we  kissed  the  hours  away 

Till  night  grew  rosier  than  the  daj\ — 


III 

Hath  he  left  you? — Yea,  he  left  us 

A  little  while  ago, 
Of  his  laughter  quite  bereft  us 

And  his  limbs  of  snow; 
We  know  not  why  he  went  away 
Who  ruled  our  revels  yesterday. — ■ 


IV 


Because  ye  did  not  understand 

Love  cometh  from  afar, 
A  pilgrim  out  of  Holy  Land 

Guided  by  a  star: 
Last  night  he  came  in  cloak  of  grey, 
Begging.     Ye  knew  him  not:  he  went  his  way. 


A  RIDE  FOR  THE  QUEEN  189 


A  RIDE  FOR  THE  QUEEN 

Queen  of  queens,  oh  lady  mine, 

You  who  say  you  love  me, 
Here's  a  cup  of  crimson  wine 

To  the  stars  above  me; 
Here's  a  cup  of  blood  and  gall 

For  a  soldier's  quaffing ! 
What's  the  prize  to  crown  it  all? 

Death?    I'll  take  it  laughing! 
I  ride  for  the  Queen  to-night ! 

Though  I  find  no  knightly  fee 

Waiting  on  my  lealty, 
High  upon  the  gallows-tree 

Faithful  to  my  fealty, 
What  had  I  but  love  and  youth, 

Hope  and  fame  in  season? 
She  has  proved  that  more  than  truth 

Glorifies  her  treason ! 


Would  that  other  do  as  much? 

Ah,  but  if  in  sorrow 
Some  forgotten  look  or  touch 

Pierce  her  heart  to-morrow 
She  might  love  me  yet,  I  think; 

So  her  lie  befriends  me, 
Though  I  know  there's  darker  drink 

Down  the  road  she  sends  me. 

Ay,  one  more  great  chance  is  mine 

(Can  I  faint  or  falter?) 
She  shall  pour  my  blood  like  wine, 

Make  my  heart  her  altar, 
Burn  it  to  the  dust !     For,  there, 

What  if  o'er  the  embers 
She  should  stoop  and — I  should  hear 

"Hush!     Thy  love  remembers!" 


190  A  RIDE  FOR  THE  QUEEN 

One  more  chance  for  every  word 

Whispered  to  betray  me, 
While  she  buckled  on  my  sword 

Smiling  to  allay  me; 
One  more  chance ;  ah,  let  me  net 

Mar  her  perfect  pleasure; 
Love  shall  pay  me,  jot  by  jot, 

Measure  for  her  measure. 


Faith  shall  think  I  never  knew, 

I  will  be  so  fervent! 
Doubt  shall  dream  I  dreamed  her  true 

As  her  war-worn  servant! 
Whoso  flouts  her  spotless  name 

(Love,  I  wear  thy  token !) 
He  shall  face  one  sword  of  flame 

Ere  the  lie  be  spoken ! 


All  the  world's  a-f oam  with  may, 

(Fragrant  as  her  bosom !) 
Could  I  find  a  sweeter  way 

Through  the  year's  young  blossom, 
Where  her  warm  red  mouth  on  mine 

Woke  my  soul's  desire?   .    .    . 
Hey !    The  cup  of  crimson  wine, 

Blood  and  gall  and  fire! 


Castle  Doom  or  Gates  of  Death? 

(Smile  again  for  pity!) 
"Boot  and  horse,"  my  lady  saith, 

"Spur  against  the  City, 
Bear  this  message!"     God  and  she 

Still  forget  the  guerdon; 
Nay,  the  rope  is  on  the  tree! 

That  shall  bear  the  burden! 
I  ride  for  the  Queen  to-night ! 


SONG  191 

SONG 


When  that  I  loved  a  maiden 

My  heaven  was  in  her  eyes, 
And  when  they  bent  above  me 

I  knew  no  deeper  skies; 
But  when  her  heart  forsook  me 

My  spirit  broke  its  bars, 
For  grief  beyond  the  sunset 

And  love  beyond  the  stars. 


II 

When  that  I  loved  a  maiden 

She  seemed  the  world  to  me: 
Now  is  my  soul  the  universe, 

My  dreams  the  sky  and  sea: 
There  is  no  heaven  above  me, 

No  glory  binds  or  bars 
My  grief  beyond  the  sunset, 

My  love  beyond  the  stars. 


Ill 

When  that  I  loved  a  maiden 

I  worshipped  where  she  trod; 
But,  when  she  clove  my  heart,  the  cleft 

Set  free  the  imprisoned  god: 
Then  was  I  king  of  all  the  world, 

My  soul  had  burst  its  bars, 
For  grief  beyond  the  sunset 

And  love  beyond  the  stars. 


192  THE  HIGHWAYMAN 

THE  HIGHWAYMAN 
PART  ONE 


The  wind  was  a  torrent  of  darkness  among  the  gusty  trees, 
The  moon  was  a  ghostly  galleon  tossed  upon  cloudy  seas, 
The  road  was  a  ribbon  of  moonlight  over  the  purple  moor, 
And  the  highwayman  came  riding — 

Riding — riding — 
The  highwayman  came  riding,  up  to  the  old  inn-door. 

II 

He'd  a  French  cocked-hat  on  his  forehead,  a  bunch  of  lace  at 

his  chin, 
A  coat  of  the  claret  velvet,  and  breeches  of  brown  doe-skin; 
They  fitted  with  never  a  wrinkle:  his  boots  were  up  to  the  thigh ! 
And  he  rode  with  a  jewelled  twinkle, 
His  pistol  butts  a-twinkle, 
His  rapier  hilt  a-twinkle,  under  the  jewelled  sky. 

Ill 

Over  the  cobbles  he  clattered  and  clashed  in  the  dark  inn- 
yard, 

And  he  tapped  with  his  whip  on  the  shutters,  but  all  was 
locked  and  barred; 

He  whistled  a  tune  to  the  window,  and  who  should  be  waiting 
there 

But  the  landlord's  black-eyed  daughter, 
Bess,  the  landlord's  daughter, 

Plaiting  a  dark  red  love-knot  into  her  long  black  hair. 

IV 

And  dark  in  the  dark  old  inn-yard  a  stable-wicket  creaked 
Where  Tim  the  ostler  listened;  his  face  was  white  and  peaked; 
His  eyes  were  hollows  of  madness,  his  hair  like  mouldy  hay, 
But  he  loved  the  landlord's  daughter, 

The  landlord's  red-lipped  daughter, 
Dumb  as  a  dog  he  listened,  and  he  heard  the  robber  say — 


THE  HIGHWAYMAN  193 

V 

"One  kiss,  my  bonny  sweetheart,  I'm  after  a  prize  to-night, 
But  I  shall  be  back  with  the  yellow  gold  before  the  morning 

light; 
Yet,  if  they  press  me  sharply,  and  harry  me  through  the 

day, 
Then  look  for  me  by  moonlight, 

Watch  for  me  by  moonlight, 
I'll  come  to  thee  by  moonlight,  though  hell  should  bar  the 

way." 

VI 

He  rose  upright  in  the  stirrups;  he  scarce  could  reach  her 

hand, 
But  she  loosened  her  hair  i'  the  casement!    His  face  burnt 

like  a  brand 
As  the  black  cascade  of  perfume  came  tumbling  over  his  breast ; 
And  he  kissed  its  waves  in  the  moonlight, 

(Oh,  sweet  black  waves  in  the  moonlight !) 
Then  he  tugged  at  his  rein  in  the  moonlight,  and  galloped  away 

to  the  West. 


PART  TWO 


He  did  not  come  in  the  dawning;  he  did  not  come  at  noon; 
And  out  o'  the  tawny  sunset,  before  the  rise  o'  the  moon, 
When  the  road  was  a  gipsy's  ribbon,  looping  the  purple  moor, 
A  red-coat  troop  came  marching — 
Marching — marching — 
King  George's  men  came  marching,  up  to  the  old  inn-door. 

II 

They  said  no  word  to  the  landlord,  they  drank  his  ale  in- 
stead, 

But  they  gagged  his  daughter  and  bound  her  to  the  foot  of  her 
narrow  bed; 

13 


194  THE  HIGHWAYMAN 

Two  of  them  knelt  at  her  casement,  with  muskets  at  their  side ! 
There  was  death  at  every  window; 

And  hell  at  one  dark  window; 
For  Bess  could  see,  through  her  casement,  the  road  that  he 
would  ride. 

Ill 

They  had  tied  her  up  to  attention,  with  many  a  sniggering 

jest; 
They  had  bound  a  musket  beside  her,  with  the  barrel  beneath 

her  breast! 
"Now  keep  good  watch!"  and  they  kissed  her. 

She  heard  the  dead  man  say — 
Look  for  me  by  moonlight; 

Watch  for  me  by  moonlight; 
I'll  come  to  thee  by  moonlight,  though  hell  should  bar  the  way! 

IV 

She  twisted  her  hands  behind  her;  but  all  the  knots  held 

good! 
She  writhed  her  hands  till  her  fingers  were  wet  with  sweat 

or  blood ! 
They  stretched  and  strained  in  the  darkness,  and  the  hours 

crawled  by  like  years, 
Till,  now,  on  the  stroke  of  midnight, 

Cold,  on  the  stroke  of  midnight, 
The  tip  of  one  finger  touched  it !     The  trigger  at  least  was  hers ! 


The  tip  of  one  finger  touched  it;  she  strove  no  more  for  the 

rest! 
Up,  she  stood  up  to  attention,  with  the  barrel  beneath  her 

breast, 
She  would  not  risk  their  hearing;  she  would  not  strive  again; 
For  the  road  lay  bare  in  the  moonlight; 

Blank  and  bare  in  the  moonlight; 
And  the  blood  of  her  veins  in  the  moonlight  throbbed  to  her 

love's  refrain. 


THE  HIGHWAYMAN  195 

VI    ! 

Tlot-tlot;    tlot-tlot!    Had    they  j  heard  it?  The  horse-hoof  a 
ringing  clear; 
Tlot-tlot,  tlot-tlot,  in  the  distance?     Were  they  deaf  that  they 

did  not  hear? 
Down  the  ribbon  of  moonlight,  over  the  brow  of  the  hill, 
The  highwayman  came  riding, 

Riding,  riding! 
The  red-coats  looked  to  their  priming!    She  stood  up,  straight 
and  still ! 

VII 

Tlot-tlot,  in  the  frosty  silence!     Tlot-tlot,  in  the  echoing  night! 

Nearer  he  came  and  nearer !    Her  face  was  like  a  light ! 

Her  eyes  grew  wide  for  a  moment;  she  drew  one  last  deep 

breath, 
Then  her  finger  moved  in  the  moonlight, 

Her  musket  shattered  the  moonlight, 
Shattered  her  breast  in  the  moonlight  and  warned  him — with 

her  death. 

VIII 
He  turned;  he  spurred  to  the  West;  he  did  not  know  who  stood 
Bowed,  with  her  head  o'er  the  musket,  drenched  with  her  own 

red  blood! 
Not  till  the  dawn  he  heard  it,  his  face  grew  grey  to  hear 
How  Bess,  the  landlord's  daughter, 

The  landlord's  black-eyed  daughter, 
Had  watched  for  her  love  in  the  moonlight,  and  died  in  the 
darkness  there. 

IX 

Back,  he  spurred  like  a  madman,  shrieking  a  curse  to  the  sky, 
With  the  white  road  smoking  behind  him  and  his  rapier 

brandished  high! 
Blood-red  were  his  spurs  i'  the  golden  noon:  wine-red  was  his 

velvet  coat, 

When  they  shot  him  down  on  the  highway, 

Down  like  a  clog  on  the  highway, 

And  he  lay  in  his  blood  on  the  highway,  with  the  bunch  of 

lace  at  his  throat. 
*  *  *  *  *  * 


196  THE  HAUNTED  PALACE 


X 


And  still  of  a  winter's  night,  they  say,  when  the  wind  is  in  the 

trees, 
When  the  moon  is  a  ghostly  galleon  tossed  upon  cloudy  seas, 
When  the  road  is  a  ribbon  of  moonlight  over  the  purple  moor, 
A  highwayman  comes  riding — 

Riding — ridin  g — 
A  highwayman  comes  riding,  up  to  the  old  inn-door. 

XI 

Over  the  cobbles  he  clatters  and  clangs  in  the  dark  inn-yard; 

He  taps  with  his  whip  on  the  shutters,  but  all  is  locked  and 

barred; 
He  whistles  a  tune  to  the  window,  and  xvho  should  be  waiting 

there 
But  the  landlord's  black-eyed  daughter, 

Bess,  the  landlord's  daughter, 
Plaiting  a  dark  red  love-knot  into  her  long  black  hair. 


THE  HAUNTED  PALACE 

Come  to  the  haunted  palace  of  my  dreams, 
My  crumbling  palace  by  the  eternal  sea, 

Which,  like  a  childless  mother,  still  must  croon 

Her  ancient  sorrows  to  the  cold  white  moon, 
Or,  ebbing  tremulously, 

With  one  pale  arm,  where  the  long  foam-fringe  gleams, 
Will  gather  her  rustling  garments,  for  a  space 
Of  muffled  weeping,  round  her  dim  white  face. 

A  princess  dwelt  here  once:  long,  long  ago 
This  tower  rose  in  the  sunset  like  a  prayer; 

And,  through  the  witchery  of  that  casement,  rolled 

In  one  soft  cataract  of  faery  gold 
Her  wonder- woven  hair; 

Her  face  leaned  out  and  took  the  sacred  glow 
Of  evening,  like  the  star  that  listened,  high 
Above  the  gold  clouds  of  the  western  sky. 


THE  HAUNTED  PALACE  197 

Was  there  no  prince  behind  her  in  the  gloom, 
No  crimson  shadow  of  his  rich  array? 

Her  face  leaned  down  to  me:  I  saw  the  tears 

Bleed  through  her  eyes  with  the  slow  pain  of  years, 
And  her  mouth  yearned  to  say — 

"Friend,  is  there  any  message,  from  the  tomb 
Where  love  lies  buried?"     But  she  only  said — 
"Oh,  friend,  canst  thou  not  save  me  from  my  dead? 


"Canst  thou  not  minister  to  a  soul  in  pain? 

Or  hast  thou  then  no  comfortable  word? 
Is  there  no  faith  in  thee  wherewith  to  atone 
For  his  unfaith  who  left  me  here  alone, 
Heart-sick  with  hope  deferred; 
Oh,  since  my  love  will  never  come  again, 

Bring'st  thou  no  respite  through  the  desolate  years, 
Respite  from  these  most  unavailing  tears?" 


Then  saw  I,  and  mine  own  tears  made  response, 

Her  woman's  heart  come  breaking  through  her  eyes; 

And,  as  I  stood  beneath  the  tower's  grey  wall, 

She  let  the  soft  waves  of  her  deep  hair  fall 
Like  flowers  from  Paradise 

Over  my  fevered  face:  then  all  at  once 
Pity  was  passion ;  and  like  a  sea  of  bliss 
Those  waves  rolled  o'er  me  drowning  for  her  kiss. 


Seven  years  we  dwelt  together  in  that  tower, 
Seven  years  in  that  old  palace  by  the  sea, 

And  sitting  at  that  casement,  side  by  side, 

She  told  me  all  her  pain :  how  love  had  died 
Now  for  all  else  but  me ; 

Yet  how  she  had  loved  that  other:  like  a  flower 
Her  red  lips  parted  and  with  low  sweet  moan 
She  pressed  their  tender  suffering  on  mine  own. 


198  THE  HAUNTED  PALACE 

And  always  with  vague  eyes  she  gazecLafal", 

Out  through  the  casement  o'er  the  changing  tide; 

And  slowly  was  my  heart's  hope  brought  to  nought 

That  some  day  I  should  win  each  wandering  thought 
And  make  her  my  soul's  bride: 

Still,  still  she  gazed  across  the  cold  sea-bar; 
Ay;  with  her  hand  in  mine,  still,  still  and  pale, 
Waited  and  watched  for  the  unreturning  sail. 


And  I,  too,  watched  and  waited  as  the  years 
Rolled  on;  and  slowly  was  I  brought  to  feel 

How  on  my  lips  she  met  her  lover's  kiss, 

How  my  heart's  pulse  begat  an  alien  bliss; 
And  cold  and  hard  as  steel 

For  me  those  eyes  were,  though  their  tender  tears 
Were  salt  upon  my  cheek;  and  then  one  night 
I  saw  a  sail  come  through  the  pale  moonlight. 


And  like  an  alien  ghost  I  stole  away, 
And  like  a  breathing  lover  he  returned; 

And  in  the  woods  I  dwelt,  or  sometimes  crept 

Out  in  the  grey  dawn  while  the  lovers  slept 
And  the  great  sea-tides  yearned 

Against  the  iron  shores;  and  faint  and  grey 
The  tower  and  the  shut  casement  rose  above: 
And  on  the  earth  I  sobbed  out  all  my  love. 


At  last,  one  royal  rose-hung  night  in  June, 
When  the  warm  air  like  purple  Hippocrene 

Brimmed  the  dim  valley  and  sparkled  into  stars, 

I  saw  them  cross  the  foam-lit  sandy  bars 

And  dark  pools,  glimmering  green, 

To  bathe  beneath  the  honey-coloured  moon : 
I  saw  them  swim  out  from  that  summer  shore, 
Kissed  by  the  sea,  but  they  returned  no  more. 


THE  HAUNTED  PALACE  199 

And  into  the  dark  palace,  like  a  dream 

Remembered  after  long  oblivious  years, 
Through  the  strange  open  doors  I  crept  and  saw 
As  some  poor  pagan  might,  with  reverent  awe, 

And  deep  adoring  tears, 
The  moonlight  through  that  painted  window  stream 

Over  the  soft  wave  of  their  vacant  bed; 

There  sank  I  on  my  knees  and  bowed  my  head, 


For  as  a  father  by  a  cradle  bows, 

Remembering  two  dead  children  of  his  own, 

I  knelt;  and  by  the  cry  of  the  great  deep 

Their  love  seemed  like  a  murmuring  in  their  sleep, 
A  little  fevered  moan, 

A  little  tossing  of  childish  arms  that  shows 
How  dreams  go  by!     "If  I  were  God,"  I  wept, 
"I  would  have  pity  on  children  while  they  slept." 


The  days,  the  months,  the  years  drift  over  me; 
This  is  my  habitation  till  I  die : 

Nothing  is  changed;  they  left  that  open  book 

Beside  the  window.     Did  he  sit  and  look 
Up  at  her  face  as  I 

Looked  while  she  read  it,  and  the  enchanted  sea 
With  rich  eternities  of  love  unknown 
Fulfilled  the  low  sweet  music  of  her  tone? 


So  did  he  listen,  looking  in  her  face? 

And  did  she  ever  pause,  remembering  so 

The  heart  that  bore  the  whole  weight  of  her  pain 

Until  her  own  heart's  love  returned  again? 
In  the  still  evening  glow 

I  sit  and  listen  in  this  quiet  place, 

And  only  hear — like  notes  of  phantom  birds — 
Their  perished  kisses  and  little  broken  words. 


200  THE  SCULPTOR 

Come  to  the  haunted  -palace  of  my  dreams, 
My  crumbling  palace  by  the  eternal  sea, 

Which,  like  a  childless  mother,  still  must  croon 

Her  ancient  sorrows  to  the  cold  white  moon, 
Or,  ebbing  tremulously, 

With  one  pale  arm,  where  the  long  foam-fringe  gleams, 
Will  gather  her  rustling  garments,  for  a  space 
Of  muffled  weeping,  round  her  dim  white  face. 


THE  SCULPTOR 

This  is  my  statue:  cold  and  white 
It  stands  and  takes  the  morning  light! 
The  world  may  flout  my  hopes  and  fears, 
Yet  was  my  life's  work  washed  with  tears 
Of  blood  when  this  poor  hand  last  night 
Finished  the  pain  of  years. 

Speak  for  me,  patient  lips  of  stone, 
Blind  eyes  my  lips  have  rested  on 
So  often  when  the  o'er-weary  brain 
Would  grope  to  human  love  again, 
And  found  this  grave  cold  mask  alone 
And  the  tears  fell  like  rain. 

Ay;  is  this  all?     Is  this  the  brow 

I  fondled,  never  wondering  how 
It  lived — the  face  of  pain  and  bliss 
That  through  the  marble  met  my  kiss? 

Oh,  though  the  whole  world  praise  it  now, 
Let  no  man  dream  it  is ! 

They  blame;  they  cannot  blame  aright 
Who  never  knew  what  infinite 

Deep  loss  must  shame  me  most  of  all ! 

They  praise;  like  earth  their  praises  fall 
Into  a  tomb.     The  hour  of  light 

Is  flown  beyond  recall. 


SUMMER  201 

Yet  have  I  seen,  yet  have  I  known, 
And  oh,  not  tombed  in  cold  white  stone 
The  dream  I  lose  on  earth  below; 
And  I  shall  come  with  face  aglow 
And  find  and  claim  it  for  my  own 
Before  God's  throne,  I  know. 


SUMMER 

(an  ode) 

Now  like  a  pageant  of  the  Golden  Year 
In  rich  memorial  pomp  the  hours  go  by, 

With  rose-embroidered  flags  unfurled 

And  tasselled  bugles  calling  through  the  world 
Wake,  for  your  hope  draws  near ! 

Wake,  for  in  each  soft  porch  of  azure  sky, 
Seen  through  each  arch  of  pale  green  leaves,  the  Gate 
Of  Eden  swings  apart  for  Summer's  royal  state. 


Ah,  when  the  Spirit  of  the  moving  scene 
Has  entered  in,  the  splendour  will  be  spent! 

The  flutes  will  cease,  the  gates  will  close; 

Only  the  scattered  crimson  of  the  rose, 
The  wild  wood's  hapless  queen, 

Dis-kingdomed,  will  declare  the  way  he  went; 
And,  in  a  little  while,  her  court  will  go, 
Pass  like  a  cloud  and  leave  no  trace  on  earth  below. 


Tell  us  no  more  of  Autumn,  the  slow  gold 
Of  fruitage  ripening  in  a  world's  decay, 
The  falling  leaves,  the  moist  rich  breath 
Of  woods  that  swoon  and  crumble  into  death 
Over  the  gorgeous  mould: 
Give  us  the  flash  and  scent  of  keen-edged  may 
Where  wastes  that  bear  no  harvest  yield  their  bloom, 
Rude  crofts  of  flowering  nettle,  bents  of  yellow  broom. 


202  SUMMER 

The  very  reeds  and  sedges  of  the  fen 

Open  their  hearts  and  blossom  to  the  sky; 

The  wild  thyme  on  the  mountain's  knees 

Unrolls  its  purple  market  to  the  bees; 
Unharvested  of  men 

The  Traveller's  Joy  can  only  smile  and  die. 

Joy,  joy  alone  the  throbbing  whitethroats  bring, 

Joy  to  themselves  and  heaven !    They  were  but  born  to  sing ! 

And  see,  between  the  northern-scented  pines, 
The  whole  sweet  summer  sharpens  to  a  glow! 

See,  as  the  well-spring  plashes  cool 

Over  a  shadowy  green  fern-fretted  pool 
The  mystic  sunbeam  shines 

For  one  mad  moment  on  a  breast  of  snow 
A  warm  white  shoulder  and  a  glowing  arm 
Up-flung,  where  some  swift  Undine  sinks  in  shy  alarm. 

And  if  she  were  not  all  a  dream,  and  lent 

Life  for  a  little  to  your  own  desire, 
Oh,  lover  in  the  hawthorn  lane, 
Dream  not  you  hold  her,  or  you  dream  in  vain ! 

The  violet,  spray-besprent 
When  from  that  plunge  the  rainbows  flashed  like  fire, 

Will  scarce  more  swiftly  lose  its  happy  dew 

Than  eyes  which  Undine  haunts  will  cease  to  shine  on  you. 

What  though  the  throstle  pour  his  heart  away, 
A  happy  spendthrift  of  uncounted  gold, 

Swinging  upon  a  blossomed  briar 

With  soft  throat  lifted  in  a  wild  desire 
To  make  the  world  his  may. 

Ever  the  pageant  through  the  gates  is  rolled 
Further  away;  in  vain  the  rich  notes  throng 
Flooding  the  mellow  noon  with  wave  on  wave  of  song. 

The  feathery  meadows  like  a  lilac  sea, 

Knee-deep,  with  honeyed  clover,  red  and  white, 
Roll  billowing:  the  crisp  clouds  pass 
Trailing  their  soft  blue  shadows  o'er  the  grass; 
The  skylark,  mad  with  glee, 


SUMMER  203 

Quivers,  up,  up,  to  lose  himself  in  light; 
And,  through  the  forest,  like  a  fairy  dream 
Through  some  dark  mind,  the  ferns  in  branching  beauty 
stream. 

Enough  of  joy !    A  little  respite  lend, 

Summer,  fair  god  that  hast  so  little  heed 

Of  these  that  serve  thee  but  to  die, 

Mere  trappings  of  thy  tragic  pageantry ! 
Show  us  the  end,  the  end ! 

We  too,  with  human  hearts  that  break  and  bleed, 
March  to  the  night  that  rounds  their  fleeting  hour, 
And  feel  we,  too,  perchance  but  serve  some  loftier  Power. 

O  that  our  hearts  might  pass  away  with  thee, 
Burning  and  pierced  and  full  of  thy  sweet  pain, 

Burst  through  the  gates  with  thy  swift  soul, 

Hunt  thy  most  white  perfection  to  the  goal, 
Nor  wait,  once  more  to  see 

Thy  chaliced  lilies  rotting  in  the  rain, 
Thy  ragged  yellowing  banners  idly  hung 
In  woods  that  have  forgotten  all  the  songs  we  sung ! 

Pence!    Like  a  pageant  of  the  Golden  Year 
In  rich  memorial  pomp  the  hours  go  by, 

With  rose-embroidered  flags  unfurled 

And  tasselled  bugles  calling  through  the  world 
Wake,  for  your  hope  draws  near! 

Wake,  for  in  each  soft  porch  of  azure  sky, 

Seen  through  each  arch  of  pale  green  leaves,  the  Gate 
Of  Eden  swings  apart  for  Summer's  royal  state. 

Not  wait !     Forgive,  forgive  that  feeble  cry 
Of  blinded  passion  all  unworthy  thee ! 

For  here  the  spirit  of  man  may  claim 

A  loftier  vision  and  a  nobler  aim 
Than  e'er  was  born  to  die: 

Man  only,  of  earth,  throned  on  Eternity, 
From  his  own  sure  abiding-place  can  mark 
How  earth's  great  golden  dreams  go  past  into  the  dark. 


204  AT  DAWN 


AT  DAWN 


O  Hesper-Phosphor,  far  away 

Shining,  the  first,  the  last  white  star, 
Hear'st  thou  the  strange,  the  ghostly  cry, 
That  moan  of  an  ancient  agony 
From  purple  forest  to  golden  sky 

Shivering  over  the  breathless  bay? 
It  is  not  the  wind  that  wakes  with  the  day; 

For  see,  the  gulls  that  wheel  and  call, 

Beyond  the  tumbling  white-topped  bar, 
Catching  the  sun-dawn  on  their  wings, 

Like  snow-flakes  or  like  rose-leaves  fall, 
Flutter  and  fall  in  airy  rings; 

And  drift,  like  lilies  ruffling  into  blossom 

Upon  some  golden  lake's  unwrinkled  bosom. 

Are  not  the  forest's  deep-lashed  fringes  wet 
With  tears?     Is  not  the  voice  of  all  regret 

Breaking  out  of  the  dark  earth's  heart? 
She  too,  she  too,  has  loved  and  lost;  and  we — 
We  that  remember  our  lost  Arcady, 
Have  we  not  known,  we  too, 
The  primal  greenwood's  arch  of  blue, 
The  radiant  clouds  at  sun-rise  curled 
Around  the  brows  of  the  golden  world; 
The  marble  temples,  washed  with  dew, 
To  which  with  rosy  limbs  aflame 
The  violet-eyed  Thalassian  came, 
Came,  pitiless,  only  to  display 
How  soon  the  youthful  splendour  dies  away; 

Came,  only  to  depart 
Laughing  across  the  gre3r-grown  bitter  sea; 
For  each  man's  life  is  earth's  epitome, 
And  though  the  years  bring  more  than  aught  they  take, 
Yet  might  his  heart  and  hers  well  break 
Remembering  how  one  prayer  must  still  be  vain. 

How  one  fair  hope  is  dead, 

One  passion  quenched,  one  glory  fled 
With  those  first  loves  that  never  come  again. 


AT  DAWN  205 

How  many  years,  how  many  generations, 

Have  heard  that  sigh  in  the  dawn, 
When  the  dark  earth  yearns  to  the  unforgotten  nations 

And  the  old  loves  withdrawn, 
Old  loves,  old  lovers,  wonderful  and  unnumbered 

As  waves  on  the  wine-dark  sea, 
'Neath  the  tall  white  towers  of  Troy  and  .the  temples  that 
slumbered 

In  Thessaly? 


From  the  beautiful  palaces,  from  the  miraculous  portals, 

The  swift  white  feet  are  flown! 
They  were  taintless  of  dust,  the  proud,  the  peerless  Immortals 

As  they  sped  to  their  loftier  throne ! 
Perchance  they  are  there,  earth  dreams,  on  the  shores  of 
Hesper, 

Her  rosy-bosomed  Hours, 
Listening  the  wild  fresh  forest's  enchanted  whisper, 

Crowned  with  its  new  strange  flowers; 
Listening  the  great  new  ocean's  triumphant  thunder 

On  the  stainless  unknown  shore, 
While  that  perilous  queen  of  the  world's  delight  and  wonder 

Comes  white  from  the  foam  once  more. 


When  the  mists  divide  with  the  dawn  o'er  those  glittering 
waters, 

Do  they  gaze  over  unoared  seas — 
Naiad    and    nymph    and    the    woodland's    rose-crowned 
daughters 

And  the  Oceanides? 
Do  they  sing  together,  perchance,  in  that  diamond  splendour, 

That  world  of  dawn  and  dew, 
With  eyelids  twitching  to  tears  and  with  eyes  grown  tender 

The  sweet  old  songs  they  knew, 
The  songs  of  Greece?     Ah,  with  harp-strings  mute  do  they 
falter 

As  the  earth  like  a  small  star  pales? 
When  the  heroes  launch  their  ship  by  the  smoking  altar 

Does  a  memorj^  lure  their  sails? 


206  THE  SWIMMER'S  RACE 

Far,  far  away,  do  their  hearts  resume  the  story 
That  never  on  earth  was  told, 

When  all  those  urgent  oars  on  the  waste  of  glory- 
Cast  up  its  gold? 

Are  not  the  forest  fringes  wet 

With  tears?    Is  not  the  voice  of  all  regret 

Breaking  out  of  the  dark  earth's  heart? 

She  too,  she  too,  has  loved  and  lost;  and  though 

She  turned  last  night  in  disdain 

Away  from  the  sunset-embers, 
From  her  soul  she  can  never  depart; 
She  can  never  depart  from  her  pain. 
Vainly  she  strives  to  forget; 
Beautiful  in  her  woe, 

She  awakes  in  the  dawn  and  remembers. 

THE  SWIMMER'S  RACE 


Between  the  clover  and  the  trembling  sea 

They  stand  upon  the  golden-shadowed  shore 
In  naked  boyish  beauty,  a  strenuous  three, 
Hearing  the  breakers'  deep  Olympic  roar; 
Three  young  athletes  poised  on  a  forward  limb, 
Mirrored  like  marble  in  the  smooth  wet  sand, 
Three  statues  moulded  by  Praxiteles: 
The  blue  horizon  rim 
Recedes,  recedes  upon  a  lovelier  land, 
And  England  melts  into  the  skies  of  Greece. 

II 

The  dome  of  heaven  is  like  one  drop  of  dew, 

Quivering  and  clear  and  cloudless  but  for  one 
Crisp  bouldered  Alpine  range  that  blinds  the  blue 

With  snowy  gorges  glittering  to  the  sun: 
Forward  the  runners  lean,  with  outstretched  hand 
Waiting  the  word — ah,  how  the  light  relieves 
The  silken  rippling  muscles  as  they  start 
Spurning  the  yellow  sand, 
Then  skimming  lightlier  till  the  goal  receives 
The  winner,  head  thrown  back  and  lips  apart. 


THE  SWIMMER'S  RACE  207 

III 

Now  at  the  sea-marge  on  the  sand  they  lie 

At  rest  for  a  moment,  panting  as  they  breathe, 
And  gazing  upward  at  the  unbounded  sky 

While  the  sand  nestles  round  them  from  beneath ; 
And  in  their  hands  they  gather  up  the  gold 
And  through  their  fingers  let  it  lazily  stream 
Over  them,  dusking  all  their  limbs'  fair  white, 
Blotting  their  shape  and  mould, 
Till,  mixed  into  the  distant  gazer's  dream 

Of  earth  and  heaven,  they  seem  to  sink  from  sight. 


IV 

But  one,  in  seeming  petulance,  oppressed 

With  heat  has  cast  his  brown  young  body  free: 
With  arms  behind  his  head  and  heaving  breast 

He  lies  and  gazes  at  the  cool  bright  sea; 
So  young  Leander  might  when  in  the  noon 
He  panted  for  the  starry  eyes  of  eve 
And  whispered  o'er  the  waste  of  wandering  waves, 
"Hero,  bid  night  come  soon!" 
Nor  knew  the  nymphs  were  waiting  to  receive 
And  kiss  his  pale  limbs  in  their  cold  sea-caves. 


Now  to  their  feet  they  leap  and,  with  a  shout, 

Plunge  through  the  glittering  breakers  without  fear, 
Breast  the  green-arching  billows,  and  still  out, 

As  if  each  dreamed  the  arms  of  Hero  near; 
Now  like  three  sunbeams  on  an  emerald  crest, 
Now  like  three  foam-flakes  melting  out  of  sight, 
They  are  blent  with  all  the  glory  of  all  the  sea; 
One  with  the  golden  West; 
Merged  in  a  myriad  waves  of  mystic  light 
As  life  is  lost  in  immortality. 


208  THE  VENUS  OF  MILO 

THE  VENUS  OF  MILO 


Backward  she  leans,  as  when  the  rose  unblown 

Slides  white  from  its  warm  sheath  some  morn  in  May! 
Under  the  sloping  waist,  aslant,  her  zone 

Clings  as  it  slips  in  tender  disarray ; 
One  knee,  out-thrust  a  little,  keeps  it  so 

Lingering  ere  it  fall;  her  lovely  face 
Gazes  as  o'er  her  own  Eternity! 
Those  armless  radiant  shoulders,  long  ago 

Perchance  held  arms  out  wide  with  yearning  grace 
For  Adon  by  the  blue  Sicilian  sea. 

II 

No;  thou  eternal  fount  of  these  poor  gleams, 

Bright  axle-star  of  the  wheeling  temporal  skies, 
Daughter  of  blood  and  foam  and  deathless  dreams, 

Mother  of  flying  Love  that  never  dies, 
To  thee,  the  topmost  and  consummate  flower, 

The  last  harmonic  height,  our  dull  desires 
And  our  tired  souls  in  dreary  discord  climb; 
The  flesh  forgets  its  pale  and  wandering  fires; 

We  gaze  through  heaven  as  from  an  ivory  tower 
Shining  upon  the  last  dark  shores  of  Time. 

Ill 

White  culmination  of  the  dreams  of  earth, 

Thy  splendour  beacons  to  a  loftier  goal, 
Where,  slipping  earthward  from  the  great  new  birth, 

The  shadowy  senses  leave  the  essential  soul ! 
Oh,  naked  loveliness,  not  yet  revealed, 

A  moment  hence  that  falling  robe  will  show 
No  prophecy  like  this,  this  great  new  dawn,  _ 
The  bare  bright  breasts,  each  like  a  soft  white  shield, 

And  the  firm  body  like  a  slope  of  snow 

Out  of  the  slipping  dream-stuff  half  withdrawn. 


NIOBE  209 

THE  NET  OF  VULCAN 

Prom  peaks  that  clove  the  heavens  asunder 

The  hunchback  god  with  sooty  claws 
Loomed  o'er  the  night,  a  cloud  of  thunder, 

And  hurled  the  net  of  mortal  laws; 
It  flew,  and  all  the  world  grew  dimmer; 

Its  blackness  blotted  out  the  stars, 
Then  fell  across  the  rosy  glimmer 

That  told  where  Venus  couched  with  Mars. 

And,  when  the  steeds  that  draw  the  mornir.g 

Spurned  from  their  Orient  hooves  the  spray, 
All  vainly  soared  the  lavi'ock,  warning 

Those  tangled  lovers  of  the  day: 
Still  with  those  twin  white  waves  in  blossom, 

Against  the  warrior's  rock-broad  breast, 
The  netted  light  of  the  foam-born  bosom 

Breathed  like  a  sea  at  rest. 

And  light  was  all  that  followed  after, 

Light  the  derision  of  the  sky, 
Light  the  divine  Olympian  laughter 

Of  kindlier  gods  in  days  gone  by: 
Low  to  her  lover  whispered  Venus, 

"The  shameless  net  be  praised  for  this — 
When  night  herself  no  more  could  screen  us 

It  snared  us  one  more  hour  of  bliss." 

NIOBE 

How  like  the  sky  she  bends  above  her  child, 

One  with  the  great  horizon  of  her  pain ! 
No  sob  from  our  low  seas  where  woe  runs  wild, 

No  weeping  cloud,  no  momentary  rain, 
Can  mar  the  heaven-high  visage  of  her  grief, 
That  frozen  anguish,  proud,  majestic,  dumb. 
She  stoops  in  pity  above  the  labouring  earth, 
Knowing  how  fond,  how  brief 
Is  all  its  hope,  past,  present,  and  to  come, 

She  stoops  in  pity,  and  yearns  to  assuage  its  dearth, 

14 


210  NIOBE 

Through  that  fair  face  the  whole  dark  universe 

Speaks,  as  a  thorn-tree  speaks  thro'  one  white'n'ower: 
And  all  those  wrenched  Promethean  souls  that  curse 

The  gods,  but  cannot  die  before  their  hour, 
Find  utterance  in  her  beauty.    That  fair  head 
Bows  over  all  earth's  graves.     It  was  her  cry- 
Men  heard  in  Rama  when  the  twisted  ways 
With  children's  blood  ran  red! 
Her  silence  utters  all  the  sea  would  sigh ; 

And,  in  her  face,  the  whole  earth's  anguish  prays. 


It  is  the  pity,  the  pity  of  human  love 

That  strains  her  face,  upturned  to  meet  the  doom, 
And  her  deep  bosom,  like  a  snow-white  dove 

Frozen  upon  its  nest,  ne'er  to  resume 
Its  happy  breathing  o'er  the  golden  brace 

Whose  fostering  was  her  death.     Death,  death  alone 
Can  break  the  anguished  horror  of  that  spell ! 
The  sorrow  on  her  face 
Is  sealed:  the  living  flesh  is  turned  to  stone; 
She  knows  all,  all,  that  Life  and  Time  can  tell. 


Ah,  yet,  her  woman's  love,  so  vast,  so  tender; 

Her  woman's  body,  hurt  by  every  dart; 
Braving  the  thunder,  still,  still  hide  the  slender 

Soft  frightened  child  beneath  her  mighty  heart. 
She  is  all  one  mute  immortal  cry,  one  brief 
Infinite  pang  of  such  victorious  pain 
That  she  transcends  the  heavens  and  bows  them  down! 
The  majesty  of  grief 
Is  hers,  and  her  dominion  must  remain 
Eternal.     God  nor  man  usurps  that  crown. 


ORPHEUS  AND  EURYDICE  211 

ORPHEUS  AND  EURYDICE 

Height   over   height,    the   purple   pine-woods  clung  to  the 
rich  Arcadian  mountains, 
Holy-sweet  as  a  sea  of  incense,  under  the  low  dark  crimson 
skies : 
Glad  were  the  glens  where  Eurydice  bathed,  in  the  beauty 
of  dawn,  at  the  haunted  fountains 
Deep  in  the  blue  hyacinthine  hollows,   whence  all   the 
rivers  of  Arcady  rise. 

Long   ago,    ah,  white    as  the    Huntress,  cold  and  sweet  as 
the  petals  that  crowned  her, 
Fair  and  fleet  as  the  fawn  that  shakes  the  dew  from  the 
fern  at  break  of  day, 
Wreathed  with  the  clouds  of  her  dusky  hair  that  swept  in 
a  sun-bright  glory  around  her, 
Down  to  the  valley  her  light  feet  stole,  ah,  soft  as  the 
budding  of  flowers  in  May. 

Down  to  the  valley  she  came,  for  far  and  far  below  in  the 
dreaming  meadows 
Pleaded  ever  the  Voice  of  voices,  calling  his  love  by  her 
golden  name; 
So  she  arose  from  her  home  in  the  hills,  and  down  through  the 
blossoms  that  danced  with  their  shadows, 
Out  of  the  blue  of  the  dreaming  distance,  down  to  the 
heart  of  her  lover  she  came. 

Red  were  the  lips  that  hovered  above  her  lips  in  the  flowery 
haze  of  the  June-day: 
Red  as  a  rose  through  the  perfumed  mist  of  passion  that 
reeled  before  her  eyes; 
Strong   the   smooth   young  sunburnt  arms   that  folded  her 
heart  to  his  heart  in  the  noon-day, 
Strong   and    supple   with    throbbing    sunshine    under   the 
blinding  southern  skies. 


212  ORPHEUS  AND  EURYDICE 

Ah,  the  kisses,  the  little  murmurs,  mad  with/pain  for  their 
phantom  fleetness, 
Mad  with  pain  for  the  passing  of  love  that  lives,  they 
dreamed — as  we  dream — for  an  hour! 
Ah,  the  sudden  tempest  of  passion,  mad  with  pain  for  its 
over-sweetness, 
As  petal  by  petal  and  pang  by  pang  their  love  broke  out  into 
perfect  flower. 

Ah,  the  wonder  as  once  he  wakened,  out  of  a  dream  of  remem- 
bered blisses, 
Couched   in   the  meadows  of  dreaming  blossom   to  feel, 
like  the  touch  of  a  flower  on  his  eyes, 
Cool  and  fresh  with  the  fragment  dews  of  dawn  the  touch 
of  her  light  swift  kisses, 
Shed  from  the  shadowy  rose  of  her  face  between  his  face  and 
the  warm  blue  skies. 


II 

Lost  in  his  new  desire 

He  dreamed  away  the  hours; 

His  lyre 
Lay  buried  in  the  flowers: 

To  whom  the  King  of  Heaven, 
Apollo,  lord  of  light, 

Had  given 
Beauty  and  love  and  might: 

Might,  if  he  would,  to  slay 
All  evil  dreams  and  pierce 

The  grey 
Veil  of  the  Universe; 

With  Love  that  holds  in  one 
Sacred  and  ancient  bond 

The  sun 
And  all  the  vast  beyond, 


ORPHEUS  AND  EURYDICE  213 

And  Beauty  to  enthral! 
The  soul  of  man  to  heaven: 

Yea,  all 
These  gifts  to  him  were  given. 


Yet  in  his  dream's  desire 
He  drowsed  away  the  hours: 

His  lyre 
Lay  buried  in  the  flowers. 


Then  in  his  wrath  arose 
Apollo,  lord  of  light, 
That  shows 
The  wrong  deed  from  the  right; 


And  by  what  radiant  laws 
O'erruling  human  needs, 

The  cause 
To  consequence  proceeds; 


How  balanced  is  the  sway 
He  gives  each  mortal  doom: 

How  day 
Demands  the  atoning  gloom: 


How  all  good  things  await 
The  soul  that  pays  the  price 

To  Fate 
By  equal  sacrifice; 


And  how  on  him  that  sleeps 
For  less  than  labour's  sake 

There  creeps 
Uncharmed,  the  Pythian  snake. 


214  ORPHEUS  AND  EURYDICE 

III 

Lulled  by  the  wash  of  the  feathery  grasses,  a  sea  with  many  a 
sun-swept  billow, 
Heart  to  heart  in  the  heart  of  the  summer,  lover  by  lover 
asleep  they  lay, 
Hearing  only  the  whirring  cicala  that  chirruped  awhile  at 
their  poppied  pillow 
Faint  and  sweet  as  the  murmur  of  men  that  laboured  in 
villages  far  away. 


Was  not  the  menace  indeed  more  silent?    Ah,  what  care  for 
labour  and  sorrow? 
Gods  in  the  meadows  of  moly  and  amaranth  surely  might 
envy  their  deep  sweet  bed 
Here  where  the  butterflies  troubled  the  lilies  of  peace,  and  took 
no  thought  for  the  morrow, 
And  golden-girdled  bees  made  feast  as  over  the  lotus  the 
soft  sun  spread. 


Nearer,  nearer  the  menace  glided,  out  of  the  gorgeous  gloom 
around  them, 
Out  of  the  poppy-haunted  shadows  deep  in  the  heart  of  the 
purple  brake; 
Till  through  the  hush  and  the  heat  as  they  lay,  and  their  own 
sweet  listless  dreams  enwound  them, — 
Mailed  and  mottled  with  hues  of  the  grape-bloom  suddenly, 
quietly,  glided  the  snake. 


Subtle  as  jealousy,  supple  as  falsehood,  diamond-headed  and 
cruel  as  pleasure, 
Coil  by  coil  he  lengthened  and  glided,  straight  to  the  fragrant 
curve  of  her  throat : 
There  in  the  print  of  the  last  of  the  kisses  that  still  glowed  red 
from  the  sweet  long  pressure, 
Fierce  as  famine  and  swift  as  lightning  over  the  glittering 
lyre  he  smote. 


ORPHEUS  AND  EURYDICE  215 

IV 

And  over  the  cold  white  body  of  love  and  delight 
Orpheus  arose  in  the  terrible  storm  of  his  grief, 

With  quivering  up-clutched  hands,  deadly  and  white, 

And  his  whole  soul  wavered  and  shook  like  a  wind-swept 
leaf: 

As  a  leaf  that  beats  on  a  mountain,  his  spirit  in  vain 
Assaulted  his  doom  and  beat  on  the  Gates  of  Death : 

Then  prone  with  his  arms  o'er  the  lyre  he  sobbed  out  his  pain, 
And  the  tense  chords  faintly  gave  voice  to  the  pulse  of  his 
breath. 

And  he  heard  it  and  rose,  once  again,  with  the  lyre  in  his 
hand, 

And  smote  out  the  cry  that  his  white-lipped  sorrow  denied : 
And  the  grief's  mad  ecstasy  swept  o'er  the  summer-sweet  land, 

And  gathered  the  tears  of  all  Time  in  the  rush  of  its  tide. 

There  was  never  a  love  forsaken  or  faith  forsworn, 

There  was  never  a  cry  for  the  living  or  moan  for  the  slain, 
But  was  voiced  in  that  great  consummation  of  song;  ay,  and 
borne 
To  storm  on  the  Gates  of  the  land  whence  none  cometh 
again. 

Transcending  the  barriers  of  earth,  comprehending  them  all 
He  followed  the  soul  of  his  loss  with  the  night  in  his  eyes ; 

And  the  portals  lay  bare  to  him  there;  and  he  heard  the  faint 
call 
Of  his  love  o'er  the  rabble  that  wails  by  the  river  of  sighs. 

Yea,  there  in  the  mountains  before  him,  he  knew  it  of  old, 

That  portal  enormous  of  gloom,  he  had  seen  it  in  dreams, 
When  the  secrets  of  Time  and  of  Fate  through  his  harmonic3 
rolled; 
And  behind  it  he  heard  the  dead  moan  by  their  desolate 
streams. 


216  ORPHEUS  AND  EURYDICE 

And  he  passed  through  the  Gates  with  the  light  and  the  cloud 
of  his  song, 
Dry-shod  over  Lethe  he  passed  to  the  chasms  of  hell; 
And  the  hosts  of  the  dead  made  mock  at  him,  ciying,  How  long 
Have  we  dwelt  in  the  darkness,  oh  fool,  and  shall  evermore 
dwell  ? 


Did  our  lovers  not  love  us?  the  grey  skulls  hissed  in  his  face; 

Were  our  lips  not  red?     Were  these  cavernous  eyes  not  bright? 
Yet  us,  whom  the  soft  flesh  clothed  with  such  roseate  grace, 

Our  lovers  would  loathe  if  we  ever  returned  to  their  sight! 


Oh  then,  through  the  soul  of  the  Singer,  a  pity  so  vast 
Mixed  with  his  anguish  that,  smiting  anew  on  his  lyre, 

He  caught  up  the  sorrows  of  hell  in  his  utterance  at  last. 
Comprehending  the  need  of  them  all  in  his  own  great  desire. 


And  they  that  were  dead,  in  his  radiant  music,  remembered 
the  dawn  with  its  low  deep  crimson, 
Heard  the  murmur  of  doves  in  the  pine-wood,  heard  the 
moan  of  the  roaming  sea, 
Heard  and  remembered  the  little  kisses,  in  woods  where  the 
last  of  the  moon  yet  swims  on 
Fragrant,  flower-strewn  April  nights  of  young-eyed  lovers 
in  Arcady; 


Saw    the    soft    blue    veils   of     shadow    floating   over   the 
billowy  grasses 
Under  the  crisp  white  curling  clouds  that  sailed  and  trailed 
through  the  melting  blue; 
Heard  once  more  the  quarrel  of  lovers  above  them  pass,  as  a 
lark-song  passes, 
Light  and  bright,  till  it  vanished  away  in  an  eye-bright 
heaven  of  silvery  dew. 


ORPHEUS  AND  EURYDICE  217 

Out  of  the  dark,  ah,  white  as  the  Huntress,  cold  and  sweet 
as  the  petals  that  crowned  her, 
Fair  and  fleet  as  a  fawn  that  shakes  the  dew  from  the  fern 
at  break  of  day; 
Wreathed  with  the  clouds  of  her  dusky  hair  that  swept  in  a 
sun-bright  glory  around  her, 
On  through  the  deserts  of  hell  she  came,  and  the  brown  air 
bloomed  with  the  light  of  May. 

On  through  the  deserts  of  hell  she  came;  for  over  the  fierce  and 
frozen  meadows 
Pleaded  ever  the  Voice  of  voices,  calling  his  love  by  her 
golden  name; 
So  she  arose  from  her  grave  in  the  darkness,  and  up  through 
the  wailing  fires  and  shadows, 
On  by  chasm  and  cliff  and  cavern,  out  of  the  horrors  of  death 
she  came. 


Then  had  she  followed  him,  then  had  he  won  her,  striking  a 
chord  that  should  echo  for  ever, 
Had  he  been  steadfast  only  a  little,  nor  paused  in  the  great 
transcendent  song; 
But  ere  they  had  won  to  the  glory  of  day,  he  came  to  the  brink 
of  the  flaming  river 
And  ceased,  to  look  on  his  love  a  moment,  a  little  moment, 
and  overlong. 


VI 

O'er  Phlegethon  he  stood: 
Below  him  roared  and  flamed 
The  flood 
For  utmost  anguish  named. 

And  lo,  across  the  night, 
The  shining  form  he  knew 

With  light 
Swift  footsteps  upward  drew. 


218  ORPHEUS  AND  EURYDICE 

/ 
Up  through  the  desolate  lands 

She  stole,  a  ghostly  star, 

With  hands 

Outstretched  to  him  afar. 

With  arms  outstretched,  she  came 
In  yearning  majesty, 

The  same 
Royal  Eurydice. 

Up  through  the  ghastly  dead 
She  came,  with  shining  eyes 

And  red 
Sweet  lips  of  child-surprise. 

Up  through  the  wizened  crowds 
She  stole,  as  steals  the  moon 

Through  clouds 
Of  flowery  mist  in  June. 

He  gazed:  he  ceased  to  smite 
The  golden-chorded  lyre: 

Delight 
Consumed  his  heart  with  fire. 

Though  in  that  deadly  land 
His  task  was  but  half-done, 

His  hand 
Drooped,  and  the  fight  half-won. 

He  saw  the  breasts  that  glowed, 
The  fragrant  clouds  of  hair: 

They  flowed 
Around  him  like  a  snare. 

O'er  Phlegethon  he  stood, 
For  utmost  anguish  named: 

The  flood 
Below  him  roared  and  flamed. 


ORPHEUS  AND  EURYDICE  219 

Out  of  his  hand  the  lyre 
Suddenly  slipped  and  fell, 

The  fire 
Acclaimed  it  into  hell. 

The  night  grew  dark  again: 
There  came  a  bitter  cry 

Of  pain, 
Oh  Love,  once  more  I  die! 

And  lo,  the  earth-dawn  broke, 
And  like  a  wraith  she  fled: 

He  woke 
Alone:  his  love  was  dead. 

He  woke  on  earth:  the  day 
Shone  coldly:  at  his  side 

There  lay 
The  body  of  his  bride. 


VII 

Only  now  when  the  purple  vintage  bubbles  and  winks  in  the 
autumn  glory, 
Only  now  when  the  great  white  oxen  drag  the  weight  of 
the  harvest  home, 
Sunburnt  labourers,  under  the  star  of  the  sunset,  sing  as  an 
old-world  story 
How  two  pale  and  thwarted  lovers  ever  through  Arcady  still 
must  roam. 

Faint  as  the  silvery  mists  of  morning  over  the  peaks  that  the 
noonday  parches, 
On  through  the  haunts  of  the  gloaming  musk-rose,  down 
to  the  rivers  that  glisten  below, 
Ever  they  wander  from  meadow  to  pinewood,  under  the  whis- 
pering woodbine  arches, 
Faint  as  the  mists  of  the  dews  of  the  dusk  when  violets 
dream  and  the  moon-winds  blow. 


220  FROM  THE  SHORE 

Though  the  golden  lute  of  Orpheus  gathered  the  splendours  of 
earth  and  heaven, 
All  the  golden  greenwood  notes  and  all  the  chimes  of  the 
changing  sea, 
Old  men  over  the  fires  of  winter  murmur  again  that  he  was  not 
given 
The  steadfast  heart  divine  to  rule  that  infinite  freedom  of 
harmony. 


Therefore  he  failed,  say  they;  but  we,  that  have  no  wisdom, 
can  only  remember 
How  through  the  purple  perfumed  pinewoods  white  Eurydice 
roamed  and  sung: 
How  through  the  whispering  gold  of  the  wheat,  where  the 
poppy  burned  like  a  crimson  ember, 
Down  to  the  valley  in  beauty  she  came,  and  under  her  feet 
the  flowers  upsprung. 


Down  to  the  valley  she  came,  for  far  and  far  below  in  the  dreaming 
meadows 
Pleaded  ever  the  Voice  of  voices,  calling  his  love  by  her  golden 
name; 
So  she  arose  from  her  home  in  the  hills,  and  down  through  the 
blosso?ns  that  danced  with  their  shadows, 
Out  of  the  blue  of  the  dreaming  distance,  down  to  the  heart  of 
her  lover  she  came. 


FROM  THE  SHORE 

Love,  so  strangely  lost  and  found, 

Love,  beyond  the  seas  of  death, 
Love,  immortally  re-crowned, 

Love,  who  swayest  this  mortal  breath, 
Sweetlier  to  thy  lover's  ear 

Steals  the  tale  that  ne'er  was  told; 
Bright-eyes,  ah,  thine  arms  are  near, 

Nearer  now  than  e'er  of  old. 


FROM  THE  SHORE  221 

When  on  earth  thy  hands  were  mine, 

Mine  to  hold  for  evermore, 
Oft  we  watched  the  sunset  shine 

Lonely  from  this  wave-beat  shore; 
Pent  in  prison-cells  of  clay, 

Time  had  power  on  thee  and  me: 
Thou  and  heaven  are  one  to-day, 

One  with  earth  and  sky  and  sea; 

Indivisible  and  one! 

Beauty  hath  unlocked  the  Gate, 
Oped  the  portals  of  the  sun, 

Burst  the  bars  of  Time  and  Fate! 
Violets  in  the  dawn  of  Spring 

Hold  the  secret  of  thine  eyes: 
Lilies  bare  their  breasts  and  fling 

Scents  of  thee  from  Paradise. 

Brooklets  have  thy  talk  by  rote; 

Thy  farewells  array  the  West; 
Fur  that  clasped  thee  round  the  throat 

Leaps — a  squirrel — to  its  nest! 
Backward  from  a  sparkling  eye 

Half-forgotten  jests  return 
Where  the  rabbit  lollops  by 

Huny-scurry  through  the  fern! 

Roses  where  I  lonely  pass 

Brush  my  brow  and  breathe  thy  kiss: 
Zephyrs,  whispering  through  the  grass, 

Lure  me  on  from  bliss  to  bliss: 
Here  thy  robe  is  rustling  close, 

There  thy  fluttering  lace  is  blown, — 
All  the  tide  of  beauty  flows 

Tributary  to  thine  own. 

Birds  that  sleek  their  shining  throats 

Capture  every  curve  from  thee: 
All  their  golden  warbled  notes, 

Fragments  of  thy  melody, 


222  THE  RETURN 

Crowding,  clustering,  one  by  one, 
Build  it  upward,  spray  by  spray, 

Till  the  lavrock  in  the  sun 

Pours  thy  rapture  down  the  day. 

Silver  birch  and  purple  pine, 

Crumpled  fern  and  crimson  rose, 
Flash  to  feel  their  beauty  thine, 

Clasp  and  fold  thee,  warm  and  close! 
Every  beat  and  gleam  of  wings 

Holds  thee  in  its  bosom  furled; 
All  that  chatters,  laughs,  and  sings, 

Darts  thy  sparkle  round  the  world. 

Love,  so  strangely  lost  and  found, 

Love,  beyond  the  seas  of  death, 
Love,  immortally  re-crowned, 

Love,  who  swayest  this  mortal  breath, 
Sweetlier  to  thy  lover's  ear 

Steals  the  tale  that  ne'er  was  told; 
Bright  eyes,  ah,  thine  arms  are  near, 

Nearer  now  than  e'er  of  old. 


THE  RETURN 

O,  hedges  white  with  laughing  may, 

0,  meadows  where  we  met, 
This  heart  of  mine  will  break  to-day 

Unless  ye,  too,  forget. 

Breathe  not  so  sweet,  breathe  not  so  sweet, 

But  swiftly  let  me  pass 
Across  the  fields  that  felt  her  feet 

In  the  old  time  that  was. 

A  year  ago,  but  one  brief  year, 

O,  happy  flowering  land, 
We  wandered  here  and  whispered  there, 

And  hand  was  warm  in  hand. 


REMEMBRANCE  223 

O,  crisp  white  clouds  beyond  the  hill, 

0,  lavrock  in  the  skies, 
Why  do  ye  all  remember  still 

Her  bright  uplifted  eyes. 


Red  heather  on  the  windy  moor, 
Wild  thyme  beside  the  way, 

White  jasmine  by  the  cottage  door, 
Harden  j^our  hearts  to-day. 


Smile  not  so  kind,  smile  not  so  kind, 

Thou  happy  haunted  place, 
Or  thou  wilt  strike  these  poor  eyes  blind 

With  her  remembered  face. 


REMEMBRANCE 

O,  unforgotten  lips,  grey  haunting  eyes, 

Soft  curving  cheeks  and  heart-remembered  brow, 

It  is  all  true,  the  old  love  never  dies; 

And,  parted,  we  must  meet  for  ever  now. 


We  did  not  think  it  true!     We  did  not  think 
Love  meant  this  universal  cry  of  pain, 

This  crown  of  thorn,  this  vinegar  to  drink, 
This  lonely  crucifixion  o'er  again. 

Yet  through  the  darkness  of  the  sleepless  night 
Your  tortured  face  comes  meekly  answering  mine; 

Dumb,  but  I  know  why  those  mute  lips  are  white; 
Dark,  but  I  know  why  those  dark  lashes  shine. 

O,  love,  love,  love,  what  death  can  set  us  free 
From  this  implacable  ghost  of  memory? 


224  LOVE'S  GHOST 

A  PRAYER 

Only  a  little,  0  Father,  only  to  rest 

Or  ever  the  night  comes  and  the  eternal  sleep, 
Only  to  rest  a  little,  a  little  to  weep 

In  the  dead  love's  pitiful  arms,  on  the  dead  love's  breast, 

A  little  to  loosen  the  frozen  fountains,  to  free 

Rivers  of  blood  and  tears  that  should  slacken  the  pulse 

Of  this  pitiless  heart,  and  appease  these  pangs  that  convulse 

Body  and  soul;  oh,  out  of  Eternity, 

A  moment  to  whisper,  only  a  moment  to  tell 

My  dead,  my  dead,  what  words  are  so  helpless  to  say — 
The  dreams  unuttered,  the  prayers  no  passion  could  pray, 

And  then — the  eternal  sleep  or  the  pains  of  hell, 

I  could  welcome  them,  Father,  gladly  as  ever  a  child 
Laying  his  head  on  the  pillow  might  turn  to  his  rest 
And  remember  in  dreams,  as  the  hand  of  the  mother  is  prest 

On  his  hair,  how  the  Pitiful  blessed  him  of  old  and  smiled. 


LOVE'S  GHOST 


Thy  house  is  dark  and  still:  I  stand  once  more 

Beside  the  marble  door. 
It  opens  as  of  old:  thy  pale,  pale  face 

Peers  thro'  the  narrow  space: 
Thy  hands  are  mine,  thy  hands  are  mine  to  hold, 

Just  as  of  old. 

II 

"Hush!  hush!  or  God  will  hear  us!    Ah,  speak  low 

As  Love  spake  long  ago." 
"Sweet,  sweet,  are  these  thine  arms,  thy  breast,  thy  hair 

Assuaging  my  despair, 
Assuaging  the  long  thirst,  quenching  the  tears 

Of  all  these  years? 


ON  A  RAILWAY  PLATFORM  225 

III 

"Thy  house  is  deep  and  still:  God  cannot  hear; 

Sweet,  have  no  fear ! 
Are  not  thy  cold  lips  crushed  against  my  kiss? 

Love  gives  us  this, 
Not  God;"  but  "Ah,"  she  moans,  "God  hears  us;  speak, 

Speak  low,  hide  cheek  on  cheek." 

IV 

Oh  then  what  eager  whisperings,  hoarded  long, 

Sweeter  than  any  song, 
What  treasured  news  to  tell,  what  hopes,  what  fears, 

Gleaned  from  the  barren  years, 
What  raptures  wrung  from  out  the  heart  of  pain, 

What  wild  farewells  again ! 


Whose  pity  is  this?    Ah,  quick,  one  kiss!    Once  more 

Closes  the  marble  door ! 
I  grope  here  in  the  darkness  all  alone. 

Across  the  cold  white  stone. 
Over  thy  tomb,  a  sudden  starlight  gleams: 

Death  gave  me  this — in  dreams. 


ON  A  RAILWAY  PLATFORM 

A  drizzle  of  drifting  rain 

And  a  blurred  white  lamp  o'erhead, 
That  shines  as  my  love  will  shine  again 

In  the  world  of  the  dead. 

Round  me  the  wet  black  night, 
And,  afar  in  the  limitless  gloom, 

Crimson  and  green,  two  blossoms  of  light, 
Two  stars  of  doom. 

15 


226  OXFORD  REVISITED 

But  the  night  of  death  is  aflare 
With  a  torch  of  back-blown  fire, 

And  the  coal-black  deeps  of  the  quivering  air 
Rend  for  my  soul's  desire. 


Leap,  heart,  for  the  pulse  and  the  roar 
And  the  lights  of  the  streaming  train 

That  leaps  with  the  heart  of  thy  love  once  more 
Out  of  the  mist  and  the  rain. 


Out  of  the  desolate  years 

The  thundering  pageant  flows; 

But  I  see  no  more  than  a  window  of  tears 
Which  her  face  has  turned  to  a  rose. 


OXFORD  REVISITED 

Changed  and  estranged,  like  a  ghost,  I  pass  the  familiar  portals, 
Echoing  now  like  a  tomb,  they  accept  me  no  more  as  of  old; 

Yet  I  go  wistfully  onward,  a  shade  thro'  a  kingdom  of  mortals 
Wanting  a  face  to  greet  me,  a  hand  to  grasp  and  to  hold. 


Hardly  I  know  as  I  go  if  the  beautiful  City  is  only 

Mocking  me  under  the  moon,  with  its  streams  and  its  wil- 
lows agleam, 
Whether  the  City  of  friends  or  I  that  am  friendless  and  lonely, 
Whether  the  boys  that  go  by  or  the  time-worn  towers  be  the 
dream; 


Whether  the  walls  that  I  know,  or  the  unknown  fugitive  faces, 
Faces  like  those  that  I  loved,  faces  that  haunt  and  waylay, 

Faces  so  like  and  unlike,  in  the  dim  unforgettable  places, 
Startling  the  heart  into  sickness  that  aches  with  the  sweet 
of  the  May,— 


OXFORD  REVISITED  227 

Whether  all  these  or  the  world  with  its  wars  be  the  wandering 
shadows ! 
Ah,    sweet    over   green-gloomed    waters    the   may   hangs, 
crimson  and  white; 
And  quiet  canoes  creep  down  by  the  warm  gold  dusk  of  ihe 
meadows, 
Lapping  with  little  splashes  and  ripples  of    silvery  light. 

Others  as  I  have  returned :    I  shall  see  the  old  faces  to-morrow, 

Down  by  the  gay-coloured  barges,  alert  for  the  throb  of  the 

oars, 

Wanting  to  row  once  again,  or  tenderly  jesting  with  sorrow 

Up  the  old  stairways  and  noting  the  strange  new  names  on 

the  doors. 

Is  it  a  dream?  And  I  know  not  nor  care  if  there  be  an  awaking 
Ever  at  all  any  more,  for  the  years  that  have  torn  us  apart, 

Few,  so  few  as  they  are,  will  ever  be  rending  and  breaking: 
Sooner  by  far  than  I  knew  have  they  wrought  this  change 
for  my  heart ! 

Well;  I  grow  used  to  it  now!     Could  the  dream  but  remain 
and  for  ever, 
With  the  flowers  round  the  grey  quadrangle  laughing  as  time 
grows  old! 
For  the  waters  go  down  to  the  sea,  but  the  sky  still  gleams  on 
the  river! 
We  plucked  them — but  there  shall  be  lilies,  ivory  lilies  and 
gold. 

And  still,  in  the  beautiful  City,  the  river  of  life  is  no  duller, 
Only  a  little  strange  as  the  eighth  hour  dreamily  chimes, 

In  the  City  of  friends  and  echoes,  ribbons  and  music  and  colour, 
Lilac  and  blossoming  chestnut,  willows  and  whispering  limes. 

Over  the  Radcliffe  Dome  the  moon  as  the  ghost  of  a  flower 
Weary  and  white  awakes  in  the  phantom  fields  of  the  sky: 

The  trustful  shepherded  clouds  are  asleep  over  steeple  and 
tower, 
Dark  under  Magdalen  walls  the  Cher  like  a  dream  goes  by. 


228  THE  THREE  SHIPS 

Back,  we  come  wandering  back,  poor  ghosts,  to  the  home  that 
one  misses 
Out  in  the  shelterless  world,  the  world  that  was  heaven  to 
us  then, 
Back  from  the  coil  and  the  vastness,  the  stars  and  the  boundless 
abysses, 
Like  monks  from  a  pilgrimage  stealing  in  bliss  to  their 
cloisters  again. 

City  of  dreams  that  we  lost,  accept  now  the  gift  we  inherit — 
Love,  such  a  love  as  we  knew  not  of  old  in  the  blaze  of  our 
noon, 
We  that  have  found  thee  at  last,  half  City,  half  heavenly 
Spirit, 
While  over  a  mist  of  spires  the  sunset  mellows  the  moon. 


THE  THREE  SHIPS 

{To  an  old  Tune) 


As  I  went  up  the  mountain-side, 
The  sea  below  me  glittered  wide, 
And,  Eastward,  far  away,  I  spied 

On  Christmas  Day,  on  Christmas  Day, 
The  three  great  ships  that  take  the  tide 

On  Christmas  Day  in  the  morning. 


II 

Ye  have  heard  the  song,  how  these  must  ply 
From  the  harbours  of  home  to  the  ports  o'  the  sky! 
Do  ye  dream  none  knoweth  the  whither  and  why 

On  Christmas  Day,  on  Christmas  Day, 
The  three  great  ships  go  sailing  by 

On  Christmas  Day  in  the  morning? 


THE  THREE  SHIPS  229 

III 

Yet,  as  I  live,  I  never  knew 

That  ever  a  song  could  ring  so  true, 

Till  I  saw  them  break  thro'  a  haze  of  blue 

On  Christmas  Day,  on  Christmas  Day; 
And  the  marvellous  ancient  flags  they  flew 

On  Christmas  Day  in  the  morning ! 


IV 


From  the  heights  above  the  belfried  town 
I  saw  that  the  sails  were  patched  and  brown, 
But  the  flags  were  a-flame  with  a  great  renown 

On  Christmas  Day,  on  Christmas  Day, 
And  on  every  mast  was  a  golden  crown 

On  Christmas  Day  in  the  morning. 


Most  marvellous  ancient  ships  were  these! 
Were  their  prows  a-plunge  to  the  Chersonese? 
For  the  pomp  of  Rome  or  the  glory  of  Greece, 

On  Christmas  Day,  on  Christmas  Day, 
Were  they  out  on  a  quest  for  the  Golden  Fleece 

On  Christmas  Day  in  the  morning? 


VI 


And  the  sun  and  the  wind  they  told  me  there 
How  goodly  a  load  the  three  ships  bear, 
For  the  first  is  gold  and  the  second  is  myrrh 

On  Christmas  Day,  on  Christmas  Day; 
And  the  third  is  frankincense  most  rare 

On  Christmas  Day  in  the  morning. 


230  SLUMBER-SONGS  OF  THE  MADONNA 

VII 

They  have  mixed  their  shrouds  with  the  golden  sky, 
They  have  faded  away  where  the  last  dreams  die   . 
Ah  yet,  will  ye  watch,  when  the  mist  lifts  high 

On  Christmas  Day,  on  Christmas  Day? 
Will  ye  see  three  ships  come  sailing  by 

On  Christmas  Day  in  the  morning? 


SLUMBER-SONGS  OF  THE  MADONNA 

PRELUDE 

Dante  saw  the  great  white  Rose 

Half  unclose; 
Dante  saw  the  golden  bees 

Gathering  from  its  heart  of  gold 

Sweets  untold, 
Love's  most  honeyed  harmonies. 

Dante  saw  the  threefold  bow 

Strangely  glow, 
Saw  the  Rainbow  Vision  rise, 

And  the  Flame  that  wore  the  crown 

Bending  down 
O'er  the  flowers  of  Paradise. 

Something  yet  remained,  it  seems; 

In  his  dreams 
Dante  missed — as  angels  may 

In  their  white  and  burning  bliss — 

Some  small  kiss 
Mortals  meet  with  every  day. 

Italy  in  splendour  faints 

'Neath  her  saints! 
O,  her  great  Madonnas,  too, 
Faces  calm  as  any  moon 
Glows  in  June, 
Hooded  with  the  night's  deep  blue! 


SLUMBER-SONGS  OF  THE  MADONNA  231 

What  remains?     I  pass  and  hear 

Everywhere, 
Ay,  or  see  in  silent  eyes 

Just  the  song  she  still  would  sing 

Thus — a-swing 
O'er  the  cradle  where  He  lies. 


Sleep,  little  baby,  I  love  thee. 

Sleep,  little  king,  I  am  bending  above  thee. 

How  should  I  know  what  to  sing 
Here  in  my  arms  as  I  swing  thee  to  sleep? 
Hushaby  low, 
Rockaby  so, 
Kings  may  have  wonderful  jewels  to  bring, 
Mother  has  only  a  kiss  for  her  king ! 
Why  should  my  singing  so  make  me  to  weep? 
Only  I  know  that  I  love  thee,  I  love  thee, 

Love  thee,  my  little  one,  sleep. 


II 


Is  it  a  dream?    Ah  yet,  it  seems 

Not  the  same  as  other  dreams ! 
I  can  but  think  that  angels  sang, 

When  thou  wast  born,  in  the  starry  sky, 
And  that  their  golden  harps  out-rang 

While  the  silver  clouds  went  by! 

The  morning  sun  shuts  out  the  stars, 

Which  are  much  loftier  than  the  sun; 
But,  could  we  burst  our  prison-bars 

And  find  the  Light  whence  light  begun, 
The  dreams  that  heralded  thy  birth 
Were  truer  than  the  truths  of  earth; 
And,  by  that  far  immortal  Gleam, 
Soul  of  my  soul,  I  still  would  dream ! 


232  SLUMBER-SONGS  OF  THE  MADONNA 

A  ring  of  light  was  round  thy  head, 
The  great-eyed  oxen  nigh  thy  bed 
Their  cold  and  innocent  noses  bowed ! 
Their  sweet  breath  rose  like  an  incense  cloud 
In  the  blurred  and  mystic  lanthorn  light. 


About  the  middle  of  the  night 

The  black  door  blazed  like  some  great  star 

With  a  glory  from  afar, 

Or  like  some  mighty  chrysolite 

Wherein  an  angel  stood  with  white 

Blinding  arrowy  bladed  wings 

Before  the  throne  of  the  King  of  kings; 

And,  through  it,  I  could  dimly  see 

A  great  steed  tethered  to  a  tree. 


Then,  with  crimson  gems  aflame 
Through  the  door  the  three  kings  came, 
And  the  black  Ethiop  unrolled 
The  richly  broidered  cloth  of  gold, 
And  poured  forth  before  thee  there 
Gold  and  frankincense  and  myrrh ! 


Ill 


See,  what  a  wonderful  smile!    Does  it  mean 

That  my  little  one  knows  of  my  love? 
Was  it  meant  for  an  angel  that  passed  unseen, 

And  smiled  at  us  both  from  above? 
Does  it  mean  that  he  knows  of  the  birds  and  the  flowers 
That  are  waiting  to  sweeten  his  childhood's  hours, 
And  the  tales  I  shall  tell  and  the  games  he  will  play, 
And  the  songs  we  shall  sing  and  the  prayers  we  shall  pray 
In  his  boyhood's  May, 
He  and  I,  one  day? 


SLUMBER-SONGS  OF  THE  MADONNA  233 

IV 

For  in  the  warm  blue  summer  weather 
We  shall  laugh  and  love  together: 

I  shall  watch  my  baby  growing, 
I  shall  guide  his  feet, 

When  the  orange  trees  are  blowing 
And  the  winds  are  heavy  and  sweet ! 

When  the  orange  orchards  whiten 

I  shall  see  his  great  eyes  brighten 
To  watch  the  long-legged  camels  going 

Up  the  twisted  street, 
When  the  orange  trees  are  blowing 

And  the  winds  are  sweet. 

What  does  it  mean?     Indeed,  it  seems 
A  dream!     Yet  not  like  other  dreams! 

We  shall  walk  in  pleasant  vales, 

Listening  to  the  shepherd's  song 
I  shall  tell  him  lovely  tales 

All  day  long: 
He  shall  laugh  while  mother  sings 
Tales  of  fishermen  and  kings. 

He  shall  see  them  come  and  go 

O'er  the  wistful  sea, 
Where  rosy  oleanders  blow 

Round  blue  Lake  Galilee, 
Kings  with  fishers'  ragged  coats 
And  silver  nets  across  their  boats, 
Dipping  through  the  starry  glow, 
With  crowns  for  him  and  me! 

Ah,  no; 
Crowns  for  him,  not  me! 

Rockaby  so!     Indeed,  it  seems 

A  dream!    Yet  not  like  other  dreams! 


234  SLUMBER-SONGS  OF  THE  MADONNA 

V 

Ah,  see  what  a  wondeful  smile  again ! 

Shall  I  hide  it  away  in  my  heart, 
To  remember  one  day  in  a  world  of  pain 

When  the  years  have  torn  us  apart, 
Little  babe, 
When  the  years  have  torn  us  apart? 

Sleep,  my  little  one,  sleep, 

Child  with  the  wonderful  eyes, 
Wild  miraculous  eyes, 
Deep  as  the  skies  are  deep ! 
What  star-bright  glory  of  tears 
Waits  in  you  now  for  the  years 
That  shall  bid  you  waken  and  weep? 
Ah,  in  that  day,  could  I  kiss  you  to  sleep 
Then,  little  lips,  little  eyes, 
Little  lips  that  are  lovely  and  wise, 
Little  lips  that  are  dreadful  and  wise! 


VI 

Clenched  little  hands  like  crumpled  roses 

Dimpled  and  dear, 
Feet  like  flowers  that  the  dawn  uncloses, 

What  do  I  fear? 
Little  hands,  will  you  ever  be  clenched  in  anguish? 
White  little  limbs,  will  you  droop  and  languish? 

Nay,  what  do  I  hear? 
I  hear  a  shouting,  far  away, 
You  shall  ride  on  a  kingly  palm-strewn  way 

Some  day! 

But  when  you  are  crowned  with  a  golden  crown 

And  throned  on  a  golden  throne, 
You'll  forget  the  manger  of  Bethlehem  town 

And  your  mother  that  sits  alone 


ENCELADUS  235 

Wondering  whether  the  mighty  king 
Remembers  a  song  she  used  to  sing, 

Long  ago, 

"Rockaby  so, 
Kings  may  have  wonderful  jewels  to  bring, 
Mother  has  only  a  kiss  for  her  king!"  .    .    . 

Ah,  see  what  a  wonderful  smile,  once  more! 

He  opens  his  great  dark  eyes ! 
Little  child,  little  king,  nay,  hush,  it  is  o'er 

My  fear  of  those  deep  twin  skies, — 
Little  child, 

You  are  all  too  dreadful  and  wise! 

VII 

But  now  you  are  mine,  all  mine, 

And  your  feet  can  lie  in  my  hand  so  small, 

And  your  tiny  hands  in  my  heart  can  twine, 
And  you  cannot  walk,  so  you  never  shall  fall, 

Or  be  pierced  by  the  thorns  beside  the  door, 

Or  the  nails  that  lie  upon  Joseph's  floor; 

Through  sun  and  rain,  through  shadow  and  shine, 
You  are  mine,  all  mine ! 


ENCELADUS 

In  the  Black  Country,  from  a  little  window, 

Before  I  slept,  across  the  haggard  wastes 

Of  dust  and  ashes,  I  saw  Titanic  shafts 

Like  shadowy  columns  of  wan-hope  arise 

To  waste,  on  the  blear  sky,  their  slow  sad  wreaths 

Of  smoke,  their  infinitely  sad  slow  prayers. 

Then,  as  night  deepened,  the  blast-furnaces, 

Red  smears  upon  the  sulphurous  blackness,  turned 

All  that  sad  region  to  a  City  of  Dis, 

Where  naked,  sweating  giants  all  night  long 

Bowed  their  strong  necks,  melted  flesh,  blood  and  bone, 

To  brim  the  dry  ducts  of  the  gods  of  gloom 

With  terrible  rivers,  branches  of  living  gold. 


236  ENCELADUS 

0,  like  some  tragic  gesture  of  great  souls 
In  agony,  those  awful  columns  towered 
Against  the  clouds,  that  city  of  ash  and  slag 
Assumed  the  grandeur  of  some  direr  Thebes 
Arising  to  the  death-chant  of  those  gods, 
A  dreadful  Order  climbing  from  the  dark 
Of  Chaos  and  Corruption,  threatening  to  take 
Heaven  withits  vast  slow  storm. 

I  slept,  and  dreamed. 
And  like  the  slow  beats  of  some  Titan  heart 
Buried  beneath  immeasurable  woes, 
The  forging-hammers  thudded  through  the  dream: 

Huge  on  a  fallen  tree, 

Lost  in  the  darkness  of  primeval  woods, 

Enceladus,  earth-born  Enceladus, 

The  naked  giant,  brooded  all  alone. 

Born  of  the  lower  earth,  he  knew  not  how, 

Born  of  the  mire  and  clay,  he  knew  not  when, 

Brought  forth  in  darkness,  and  he  knew  not  why! 

Thus,  like  a  wind,  went  by  a  thousand  years. 

Anhungered,  yet  no  comrade  of  the  wolf, 
And  cold,  but  with  no  power  upon  the  sun, 
A  master  of  this  world  that  mastered  him! 

Thus,  like  a  cloud,  went  by  a  thousand  years. 

Who  chained  this  other  giant  in  his  heart 
That  heaved  and  burned  like  Etna?     Heavily 
He  bent  his  brows  and  wondered  and  was  dumb. 

And,  like  one  wave,  a  thousand  years  went  by. 

He  raised  his  matted  head  and  scanned  the  stars. 
He  stood  erect!     He  lifted  his  uncouth  arms! 
With  inarticulate  sounds  his  uncouth  lips 
Wrestled  and  strove — I  am  full-fed,  and  yet 
I  hunger! 
Who  set  this  fiercer  famine  in  my  maw? 


ENCELADUS  237 

Can  I  eat  moons,  gorge  on  the  Milky  Way, 
Swill  sunsets  down,  or  sup  the  wash  of  the  dawn 
Out  of  the  rolling  swine-troughs  of  the  sea.' 
Can  I  drink  oceans,  lie  beneath  the  mountains, 
And  nuzzle  their  heavy  boulders  like  a  cub 
Sucking  the  dark  teats  of  the  tigress?     Who, 
Who  set  this  deeper  hunger  in  my  heart? 
And  the  dark  forest  echoed — Who?    Ah,  who? 

"I  hunger!" 

And  the  night-wind  answered  him, 

"Hunt,  then,  for  food." 

"/  hunger  V 

And  the  sleek  gorged  lioness 

Drew  nigh  him,  dripping  freshly  from  the  kill, 

Redder  her  lolling  tongue,  whiter  her  fangs, 

And  gazed  with  ignorant  eyes  of  golden  flame. 

"I  hunger!" 

Like  a  breaking  sea  his  cry 

Swept  through  the  night.    Against  his  swarthy  knees 
She  rubbed  the  red  wet  velvet  of  her  ears 
With  mellow  thunders  of  unweeting  bliss, 
Purring — Ah,  seek,  and  you  shall  find. 
Ah,  seek,  and  you  shall  slaughter,  gorge,  ah  seek, 
Seek,  seek,  you  shall  feed  full,  ah  seek,  ah  seek. 

Enceladus,  earth-born  Enceladus, 

Bewildered  like  a  desert-pilgrim,  saw 

A  rosy  City,  opening  in  the  clouds, 

The  hunger-born  mirage  of  his  own  heart, 

Ear,  far  above  the  world,  a  home  of  gods, 

Where  One,  a  goddess,  veiled  in  the  sleek  waves 

Of  her  deep  hair,  yet  glimmering  golden  through, 

Lifted,  with  radiant  arms,  ambrosial  food 

For  hunger  such  as  this!     Up  the  dark  hills, 

He  rushed,  a  thunder-cloud, 

Urged  by  the  famine  of  his  heart.     He  stood 

High  on  the  topmost  crags,  he  hailed  the  gods 

In  thunder,  and  the  clouds  re-echoed  it! 


238  ENCELADUS 

He  hailed  the  gods! 

And  like  a  sea  of  thunder  round  their  thrones 

Washing,  a  midnight  sea,  his  earth-born  voice 

Besieged  the  halls  of  heaven!    He  hailed  the  gods! 

They  laughed,  he  heard  them  laugh ! 

With  echo  and  re-echo,  far  and  wide, 

A  golden  seaT)f  mockery,  they  laughed! 

Enceladus,  earth-born  Enceladus, 

Laid  hold  upon  the  rosy  Gates  of  Heaven , 

And  shook  them  with  gigantic  sooty  hands, 

Asking  he  knew  not  what,  but  not  for  alms; 

And  the  Gates,  opened  as  in  jest; 

And,  like  a  sooty  jest,  he  stumbled  in. 

Round  him  the  gods,  the  young  and  scornful  gods, 
Clustered  and  laughed  to  mark  the  ravaged  face, 
The  brutal  brows,  the  deep  and  dog-like  eyes, 
The  blunt  black  nails,  and  back  with  burdens  bowed. 
And,  when  they  laughed,  he  snarled  with  uncouth  lips 
And  made  them  laugh  again. 

"  Whence  comest  thou?" 
He  could  not  speak! 

How  should  he  speak  whose  heart  within  him  heaved 
And  burned  like  Etna?    Through  his  mouth  there  came 
A  sound  of  ice-bergs  in  a  frozen  sea 
Of  tears,  a  sullen  region  of  black  ice 
Rending  and  breaking,  very  far  away. 
They  laughed! 

He  stared  at  them,  bewildered,  and  they  laughed 
Again,  "  Whence  comest  thou?" 

He  could  not  speak! 

But  through  his  mouth  a  moan  of  midnight  woods, 
Where  wild  beasts  lay  in  wait  to  slaughter  and  gorge, 
A  moan  of  forest-caverns  where  the  wolf 
Brought  forth  her  litter,  a  moan  of  the  wild  earth 
In  travail  with  strange  shapes  of  mire  and  clay, 
Creatures  of  clay,  clay  images  of  the  gods, 
That  hungered  like  the  gods,  the  most  high  gods, 
But  found  no  food,  and  perished  like  the  beasts. 


ENCELADUS  239 

And  the  gods  laughed, — 

Art  thou,  then,  such  a  god?    And,  like  a  leaf 

Unfolding  in  dark  woods,  in  his  deep  brain 

A  sudden  memory  woke;  and  like  an  ape 

He  nodded,  and  all  heaven  with  laughter  rocked, 

"While  Artemis  cried  out  with  scornful  lips, — 

Perchance  He  is  the  Maker  of  you  all! 

Then,  piteously  outstretching  calloused  hands, 
He  sank  upon  his  knees,  his  huge  gnarled  knees, 
And  echoed,  falteringly,  with  slow  harsh  tongue, — 
Perchance,  perchance,  the  Maker  of  xjou  all. 

They  wept  with  laughter!    And  Aphrodite,  she. 
With  keener  mockery  than  white  Artemis 
Who  smiled  aloof,  drew  nigh  him  unabashed 
In  all  her  blinding  beauty.     Carelessly, 
As  o'er  the  brute  brows  of  a  stalled  ox 
Across  that  sooty  muzzle  and  brawny  breast, 
Contemptuously,  she  swept  her  golden  hair 
In  one  deep  wave,  a  many-millioned  scourge 
Intolerable  and  beautiful  as  fire; 
Then  turned  and  left  him,  reeling,  gasping,  dumb, 
While  heaven  re-echoed  and  re-echoed,  See, 
Perchance,  perchance,  the  Maker  of  us  all! 

Enceladus,  earth-born  Enceladus, 

Rose  to  his  feet,  and  with  one  terrible  cry 

"I  hunger"  rushed  upon  the  scornful  gods 

And  strove  to  seize  and  hold  them  with  his  hands, 

And  still  the  laughter  deepened  as  they  rolled 

Their  clouds  around  them,  baffling  him.     But  once, 

Once  with  a  shout,  in  his  gigantic  arms 

He  crushed  a  slippery  splendour  on  his  breast 

And  felt  on  his  harsh  skin  the  cool  smooth  peaks 

Of  Aphrodite's  bosom.     One  black  hand 

Slid  down  the  naked  snow  of  her  long  side 

And  bruised  it  where  he  held  her.     Then,  like  snow 

Vanishing  in  a  furnace,  out  of  his  arms 

The  splendour  suddenly  melted,  and  a  roll 

Of  thunder  split  the  dream,  and  headlong  down 


240  .  ENCELADUS 

He  fell,  from  heaven  to  earth;  while,  overhead 
The  young  and  scornful  gods — he  heard  them  laugh !- 
Toppled  the  crags  down  after  him.     He  lay 
Supine.     They  plucked  up  Etna  by  the  roots 
And  buried  him  beneath  it.     His  broad  breast 
Heavedrlike  that  other  giant  in  his  heart, 
And  through  the  crater  burst  his  fiery  breath, 
But  could  not  burst  his  bonds.     And  so  he  lay 
Breathing  in  agony  thrice  a  thousand  years. 

Then  came  a  Voice,  he  knew  not  whence,  "Arise, 
Enceladus!"     And  from  his  heart  a  crag 
Fell,  and  one  arm  was  free,  and  one  thought  free, 
And  suddenly  he  awoke,  and  stood  upright, 
Shaking  the  mountains  from  him  like  a  dream; 
And  the  tremendous  light  and  awful  truth 
Smote,  like  the  dawn,  upon  his  blinded  eyes, 
That  out  of  his  first  wonder  at  the  world, 
Out  of  his  own  heart's  deep  humility, 
And  simple  worship,  he  had  fashioned  gods 
Of  cloud,  and  heaven  out  of  a  hollow  shell. 
And  groping  now  no  more  in  the  empty  space 
Outward,  but  inward  in  his  own  deep  heart, 
He  suddenly  felt  the  secret  gates  of  heaven 
Open,  and  from  the  infinite  heavens  of  hope 
Inward,  a  voice,  from  the  innermost  courts  of  Love, 
Rang — Thou  shalt  have  none  other  gods  but  Me. 

Enceladus,  the  foul  Enceladus, 
When  the  clear  light  out  of  that  inward  heaven 
Whose  gates  are  only  inward  in  the  soul, 
Showed  him  that  one  true  Kingdom,  said, 

"I  will  stretch 
My  hands  out  once  again.    And,  as  the  God 
That  made  me  is  the  Heart  within  my  heart, 
So  shall  my  heart  be  to  this  dust  and  earth 
A  god  and  a  creator.     I  will  strive 
With  mountains,  fires  and  seas,  wrestle  and  strive, 
Fashion  and  make,  and  that  which  I  have  made 
In  anguish  I  shall  love  as  God  loves  me." 


IN  THE  COOL  OF  THE  EVENING  241 

In  the  Black  Country,  from  a  little  window, 
Waking  at  dawn,  I  saw  those  giant  Shafts 
— 0  great  dark  word  out  of  our  elder  speech, 
Long  since  the  poor  man's  kingly  heritage — 
The  Shapings,  the  dim  Sceptres  of  Creation, 
The  Shafts  like  columns  of  wan-hope  arise 
To  waste,  on  the  blear  sky,  their  slow  sad  wreaths 
Of  smoke,  their  infinitely  sad  slow  prayers. 
Then,  as  the  dawn  crimsoned,  the  sordid  clouds, 
The  puddling  furnaces,  the  mounds  of  slag, 
The  cinders,  and  the  sand-beds  and  the  rows 
Of  wretched  roofs,  assumed  a  majesty 
Beyond  all  majesties  of  earth  or  air; 
Beauty  beyond  all  beauty,  as  of  a  child 
In  rags,  upraised  thro'  the  still  gold  of  heaven, 
With  wasted  arms  and  hungering  eyes,  to  bring 
The  armoured  seraphim  down  upon  their  knees 
And  teach  eternal  God  humility; 
The  solemn  beauty  of  the  unfulfilled 
Moving  towards  fulfilment  on  a  height 
Beyond  all  heights;  the  dreadful  beauty  of  hope; 
The  naked  wrestler  struggling  from  the  rock 
Under  the  scidptor's  chisel;  the  rough  mass 
Of  clay  more  glorious  for  the  poor  blind  face 
And  bosom  that  half  emerge  into  the  light, 
More  glorious  and  august,  even  in  defeat, 
Than  that  too  cold  dominion  God  foreswore 
To  bear  this  passionate  universal  load, 
This  Calvary  of  Creation,  with  mankind. 


IN  THE  COOL  OF  THE  EVENING 


In  the  cool  of  the  evening,  when  the  low  sweet  whispers  waken, 
When  the  labourers  turn  them  homeward,  and  the  weary 
have  their  will, 

When  the  censers  of  the  roses  o'er  the  forest-aisles  are  shaken, 
Is  it  but  the  wind  that  cometh  o'er  the  far  green  hill? 

16 


242  A  ROUNDHEAD'S  RALLYING  SONG 

II 

For  they  say  'tis  but  the  sunset  winds  that  wander  through 
the  heather, 
Rustle  all  the  meadow-grass  and  bend  the  dewy  fern; 
They  say  'tis  but  the  winds  that  bow  the  reeds  in  praj^er 
together, 
And  fill  the  shaken  pools  with  fire  along  the  shadowy  burn. 


Ill 

In  the  beauty  of  the  twilight,  in  the  Garden  that  He  loveth, 
They  have  veiled  His  lovely  vesture  with  the  darkness  of  a 
name! 
Thro'  His  Garden,  thro'  His  Garden  it  is  but  the  wind  that 
moveth, 
No  more;  but  O,  the  miracle,  the  miracle  is  the  same! 


IV 

In  the  cool  of  the  evening,  when  the  sky  is  an  old  story 

Slowly  dying,  but  remembered,  ay,  and  loved  with  passion 
still, 
Hush !  .    .    .   the  fringes  of  His  garment,  in  the  fading  golden 
glory, 
Softly  rustling  as  He  cometh  o'er  the  far  green  hill. 


A  ROUNDHEAD'S  RALLYING  SONG 


How  beautiful  is  the  battle, 

How  splendid  are  the  spears, 
When  our  banner  is  the  sky 
And  our  watchword  Liberty, 

And  our  kingdom  lifted  high  above  the  years. 


VICISTI,  GALILEE  243 

II 

How  purple  shall  our  blood  be, 

How  glorious  our  scars, 
When  we  lie  there  in  the  night 
With  our  faces  full  of  light 

And  the  death  upon  them  smiling  at  the  stars. 

Ill 

How  golden  is  our  hauberk, 

And  steel,  and  steel  our  sword, 
And  our  shield  without  a  stain 
As  we  take  the  field  again, 

We  whose  armour  is  the  armour  of  the  Lord ! 


VICISTI,  GALILEE 

"The  shrines  are  dust,  the  gods  are  dead," 

They  cried  in  ancient  Rome ! 
"Ah  yet,  the  Idalian  rose  is  red, 

And  bright  the  Paphian  foam: 
For  all  your  Galilaean  tears 

We  turn  to  her,"  men  say  .    .    . 
But  we,  we  hasten  thro'  the  years 

To  our  own  yesterday. 

Thro'  all  the  thousand  years  ye  need 

To  make  the  lost  so  fair, 
Before  ye  can  award  His  meed 

Of  perfect  praise  and  prayer ! 
Ye  liberated  souls,  the  crown 

Is  yours;  and  yet,  some  few 
Can  hail,  as  this  great  Cross  goes  down 

Its  distant  triumph,  too. 

Poor  scornful  Lilliputian  souls, 

And  are  ye  still  too  proud 
To  risk  your  little  aureoles 

By  kneeling  with  the  crowd? 


244  VICISTI,  GALILEE 

Do  ye  still  dream  ye  "stand  alone" 

So  fearless  and  so  strong? 
To-day  we  claim  the  rebels'  throne 

And  leave  you  with  the  throng. 

Yes,  He  has  conquered!    You  at  least 

The  "van-guard"  leaves  behind 
To  croon  old  tales  of  king  and  priest 

In  the  ingles  of  mankind: 
The  breast  of  Aphrodite  glows, 

Apollo's  face  is  fan- 
But  0,  the  world's  wide  anguish  knows 

No  Apollonian  prayer. 

Not  ours  to  scorn  the  first  white  gleam 

Of  beauty  on  this  earth, 
The  clouds  of  dawn,  the  nectarous  dreamy 

The  gods  of  simpler  birth; 
But,  as  ye  praise  them,  your  own  cry 

Is  fraught  with  deeper  pain, 
And  the  Compassionate  ye  deny 

Returns,  returns  again. 

O,  worshippers  of  the  beautiful, 

Is  this  the  end  then,  this, — 
That  ye  can  only  see  the  skull 

Beneath  the  face  of  bliss? 
No  monk  in  the  dark  years  ye  scorn 

So  barren  a  pathway  trod 
As  ye  who,  ceasing  not  to  mourn, 

Deny  the  mourner's  God. 

And,  while  ye  scoff,  on  every  side 

Great  hints  of  Him  go  by, — 
Souls  that  are  hourly  crucified 

On  some  new  Calvary ! 
O,  tortured  faces,  white  and  meek, 

Half  seen  amidst  the  crowd, 
Grey  suffering  lips  that  never  speak, 

The  Glory  in  the  Cloud ! 


VICISTI,  GALILEE  245 

In  flower  and  dust,  in  chaff  and  grain, 

He  binds  Himself  and  dies! 
We  live  by  His  eternal  pain, 

His  hourly  sacrifice; 
The  limits  of  our  mortal  life 

Are  His.    The  whisper  thrills 
Under  the  sea's  perpetual  strife, 

And  through  the  sunburnt  hills. 


Darkly,  as  in  a  glass,  our  sight 

Still  gropes  thro'  Time  and  Space: 
We  cannot  see  the  Light  of  Light 

With  angels,  face  to  face: 
Only  the  tale  His  martjTS  tell 

Around  the  dark  earth  rings 
He  died  and  He  went  down  to  hell 

And  lives — the  King  of  Kings ! 


And,  while  ye  scoff,  from  shore  to  shore, 

From  sea  to  moaning  sea, 
Eloi,  Eloi,  goes  up  once  more 

Lama  sabacthani! 
The  heavens  are  like  a  scroll  unfurled, 

The  writing  flames  above — 
This  is  the  King  of  all  the  world 

Upon  His  Cross  of  Love. 


246  DRAKE 


DRAKE 

DEDICATED  TO 
RUDOLPH  CHAMBERS  LEHMANN 


PROLOGUE  TO  AMERICAN  EDITION 

I 

England,  my  mother, 

Lift  to  my  western  sweetheart 
One  full  cup  of  English  mead,  breathing  of  the  may! 

Pledge  the  may-flower  in  her  face  that  you  and  ah,  none  other, 
Sent  her  from  the  mother-land 
Across  the  dashing  spray. 

II 

Hers  and  yours  the  story: 
Think  of  it,  oh,  think  of  it — 
That  immortal  dream  when  El  Dorado  flushed  the  skies! 
Fill  the  beaker  full  and  drink  to  Drake's  undying  glory, 
Yours  and  hers  (Oh,  drink  of  it!) 
The  dream  that  never  dies. 

Ill 

Yours  and  hers  the  free-men 

Who  scanned  the  stars  and  westward  sung 
When  a  king  commanded  and  the  Atlantic  thundered  "Nay!" 
Hers  as  yours  the  pride  is,  for  Drake  our  first  of  seamen 
First  upon  his  bow-sprit  hung 
That  bunch  of  English  may. 

IV 

Pledge  her  deep,  my  mother; 
Through  her  veins  thy  life-stream  runs! 
Spare  a  thought,  too,  sweetheart,  for  my  mother  o'er  the  sea! 
Younger  eyes  are  yours;  but  ah,  those  old  eyes  and  none 
other 
Once  bedewed  the  may-flower;  once, 
As  yours,  were  clear  and  free. 


DRAKE  247 

V 

Once!    Nay,  now  as  ever 

Beats  within  her  ancient  heart 
All  the  faith  that  took  you  forth  to  seek  your  heaven  alone: 
Shadows  come  and  go;  but  let  no  shade  of  doubt  dissever, 
Cloak,  or  cloud,  or  keep  apart 
Two  souls  whose  prayer  is  one. 


VI 

Sweetheart,  ah,  be  tender — 

Tender  with  her  prayer  to-night! 
Such  a  goal  might  yet  be  ours! — the  battle-flags  be  furled, 
All  the  wars  of  earth  be  crushed,  if  only  now  your  slender 
Hand  should  grasp  her  gnarled  old  hand 
And  federate  the  world. 


VII 

Foolish  it  may  seem,  sweet! 
Still  the  battle  thunder  lours: 
Darker  look  the  Dreadnoughts  as  old  Europe  goes  her  way! 
Yet  your  hand,  your  hand,  has  power  to  crush  that  evil 
dream,  sweet; 
You,  with  younger  eyes  than  ours 
And  brows  of  English  may. 


VIII 

If  a  singer  cherishes 

Idle  dreams  or  idle  words, 
You  shall  judge — and  you'll  forgive:  for,  far  away  or  nigh, 
Still  abides  that  Vision  without  which  a  people  perishes; 
Love  will  strike  the  atoning  chords! 
Hark — there  comes  a  cry! 


248  DRAKE 

IX 

Over  all  this  earth,  sweet, 
The  poor  and  weak  look  up  to  you — 
Lift  their  burdened  shoulders,  stretch  their  fettered  hands  in 
prayer: 
You,  with  gentle  hands,  can  bring  the  world-wide  dream  to 
birth,  sweet, 
While  I  lift  this  cup  to  you 
And  wonder — will  she  care? 


X 

Kindle,  eyes,  and  beat,  heart! 
Hold  the  brimming    beaker  up! 
All  the  may  is  burgeoning  from  East  to  golden  West! 
England,  my  mother,  greet  America,  my  sweetheart: 
— Ah,  but  ere  I  drained  the  cup 
I  found  her  on  your  breast. 


EXORDIUM 

When  on  the  highest  ridge  of  that  strange  land, 

Under  the  cloudless  blinding  tropic  blue, 

Drake  and  his  band  of  swarthy  seamen  stood 

With  dazed  eyes  gazing  round  them,  emerald  fans 

Of  palm  that  feU  like  fountains  over  cliffs 

Of  gorgeous  red  anana  bloom  obscured 

Their  sight  on  every  side.     Illustrious  gleams 

Of  rose  and  green  and  gold  streamed  from  the  plumes 

That  flashed  like  living  rainbows  through  the  glades. 

Piratic  glints  of  musketoon  and  sword, 

The  scarlet  scarves  around  the  tawny  throats, 

The  bright  gold  ear-rings  in  the  sun-black  ears, 

And  the  calm  faces  of  the  negro  guides 

Opposed  their  barbarous  bravery  to  the  noon; 

Yet  a  deep  silence  dreadfully  besieged 

Even  those  mighty  hearts  upon  the  verge 

Of  the  undiscovered  world.     Behind  them  lay 


DRAKE  249 

The  old  earth  they  knew.     In  front  they  could  not  see 
What  lay  beyond  the  ridge.     Only  they  heard 
Cries  of  the  painted  birds  troubling  the  heat 
And  shivering  through  the  woods;  till  Francis  Drake 
Plunged  through  the  hush,  took  hold  upon  a  tree, 
The  tallest  near  them,  and  clomb  upward,  branch 
By  branch. 

And  there,  as  he  swung  clear  above 
The  steep-down  forest,  on  his  wondering  eyes, 
Mile  upon  mile  of  rugged  shimmering  gold, 
Burst  the  unknown  immeasurable  sea. 
Then  he  descended;  and  with  a  new  voice 
Vowed  that,  God  helping,  he  would  one  day  plough 
Those  virgin  waters  with  an  English  keel. 

So  here  before  the  unattempted  task, 

Above  the  Golden  Ocean  of  my  dream 

I  clomb  and  saw  in  splendid  pageant  pass 

The  wild  adventures  and  heroic  deeds 

Of  England's  epic  age,  a  vision  lit 

With  mighty  prophecies,  fraught  with  a  doom 

Worthy  the  great  Homeric  roll  of  song, 

Yet  all  unsung  and  unrecorded  quite 

By  those  who  might  have  touched  with  Raphael's  hand 

The  large  imperial  legend  of  our  race, 

Ere  it  brought  forth  the  braggarts  of  an  hour, 

Self-worshippers  who  love  their  imaged  strength, 

And  as  a  symbol  for  their  own  proud  selves 

Misuse  the  sacred  name  of  this  dear  land, 

While  England  to  the  Empire  of  her  soul 

Like  some  great  Prophet  passes  through  the  crowd 

That  cannot  understand;  for  he  must  climb 

Up  to  that  sovran  thunder-smitten  peak 

Where  he  shall  grave  and  trench  on  adamant 

The  Law  that  God  shall  utter  by  the  still 

Small  voice,  not  by  the  whirlwind  or  the  fire. 

There  labouring  for  the  Highest  in  himself 

He  shall  achieve  the  good  of  all  mankind; 

And  from  that  lonely  Sinai  shall  return 

Triumphant  o'er  the  little  gods  of  gold 

That  rule  their  little  hour  upon  the  plain. 


250  DRAKE 

Oh,  thou  blind  master  of  these  opened  eyes 

Be  near  me,  therefore,  now;  for  not  in  pride 

I  lift  lame  hands  to  this  imperious  theme; 

But  yearning  to  a  power  above  mine  own 

Even  as  a  man  might  lift  his  hands  in  prayer. 

Or  as  a  child,  perchance,  in  those  dark  days 

When  London  lay  beleaguered  and  the  axe 

Flashed  out  for  a  bigot  empire;  and  the  blood 

Of  martyrs  made  a  purple  path  for  Spain 

Up  to  the  throne  of  Mary;  as  a  child 

Gathering  with  friends  upon  a  winter's  morn 

For  some  mock  fight  between  the  hateful  prince 

Philip  and  Thomas  Wyatt,  all  at  once 

Might  see  in  gorgeous  ruffs  embastioned 

Popinjay  plumes  and  slouching  hats  of  Spain, 

Gay  shimmering  silks  and  rich  encrusted  gems, 

Gold  collars,  rare  brocades,  and  sleek  trunk-hose 

The  Ambassador  and  peacock  courtiers  come 

Strutting  along  the  white  snow-strangled  street, 

A  walking  plot  of  scarlet  Spanish  flowers, 

And  with  one  cry  a  hundred  boyish  hands 

Put  them  to  flight  with  snowballs,  while  the  wind 

All  round  their  Spanish  ears  hissed  like  a  flight 

Of  white- winged  geese;  so  may  I  wage  perchance 

A  mimic  war  with  all  my  heart  in  it, 

Munitioned  with  mere  perishable  snow 

Which  mightier  hands  one  day  will  urge  with  steel. 

Yet  may  they  still  remember  me  as  I 

Remember,  with  one  little  laugh  of  love, 

That  child's  game,  this  were  wealth  enough  for  me. 


Mother  and  love,  fair  England,  hear  my  prayer; 
Help  me  that  I  may  tell  the  enduring  tale 
Of  that  great  seaman,  good  at  need,  who  first 
Sailed  round  this  globe  and  made  one  little  isle, 
One  little  isle  against  that  huge  Empire 
Of  Spain  whose  might  was  paramount  on  earth, 
O'ertopping  Babylon,  Nineveh,  Greece,  and  Rome, 
Carthage  and  all  huge  Empires  of  the  past, 
He  made  this  little  isle,  against  the  world, 


DRAKE  251 

Queen  of  the  earth  and  sea.     Nor  this  alone 

The  theme;  for,  in  a  mightier  strife  engaged 

Even  than  he  knew,  he  fought  for  the  new  faiths, 

Championing  our  manhood  as  it  rose 

And  cast  its  feudal  chains  before  the  seat 

Of  kings;  nay,  in  a  mightier  battle  yet 

He  fought  for  the  soul's  freedom,  fought  the  fight 

Which,  though  it  still  rings  in  our  wondering  ears, 

Was  won  then  and  for  ever — that  great  war, 

That  last  Crusade  of  Christ  against  His  priests, 

Wherein  Spain  fell  behind  a  thunderous  roar 

Of  ocean  triumph  over  burning  ships 

And  shattered  fleets,  while  England,  England  rose, 

Her  white  cliffs  laughing  out  across  the  waves, 

Victorious  over  all  her  enemies. 


And  while  he  won  the  world  for  her  domain, 
Her  loins  brought  forth,  her  fostering  bosom  fed 
Souls  that  have  swept  the  spiritual  seas 
From  heaven  to  hell,  and  justified  her  crown. 
For  round  the  throne  of  great  Elizabeth 
Spenser  and  Burleigh,  Sidney  and  Verulam, 
Clustered  like  stars,  rare  Jonson  like  the  crown 
Of  Cassiopeia,  Marlowe  ruddy  as  Mars, 
And  over  all  those  mighty  hearts  arose 
The  soul  of  Shakespeare  brooding  far  and  wide 
Beyond  our  small  horizons,  like  a  light 
Thrown  from  a  vaster  sun  that  still  illumes 
Tracts  which  the  arc  of  our  increasing  day 
Must  still  leave  undiscovered,  unexplored. 


Mother  and  love,  fair  England,  hear  my  prayer, 
As  thou  didst  touch  the  heart  and  light  the  flame 
Of  wonder  in  those  eyes  which  first  awoke 
To  beauty  and  the  sea's  adventurous  dream 
Three  hundred  years  ago,  three  hundred  years, 
And  five  long  decades,  in  the  leafy  lanes 
Of  Devon,  where  the  tallest  trees  that  bore 
The  raven's  matted  nest  had  yielded  up 


252  DRAKE 

Their  booty,  while  the  perilous  branches  swayed 

Beneath  the  boyish  privateer,  the  king 

Of  many  young  companions,  Francis  Drake; 

So  hear  me,  and  so  help,  for  more  than  his 

My  need  is,  even  than  when  he  first  set  sail 

Upon  that  wild  adventure  with  three  ships 

And  three-score  men  from  grey  old  Plymouth  Sound, 

.Not  knowing  if  he  went  to  life  or  death, 

Not  caring  greatly,  so  that  he  were  true 

To  his  own  sleepless  and  unfaltering  soul 

Which  could  not  choose  but  hear  the  ringing  call 

Across  the  splendours  of  the  Spanish  Main 

Prom  ever  fading,  ever  new  horizons, 

And  shores  beyond  the  sunset  and  the  sea. 


Mother  and  sweetheart,  England;  from  whose  breast, 
With  all  the  world  before  them,  they  went  forth, 
Thy  seamen,  o'er  the  wide  uncharted  waste, 
Wider  than  that  Ulysses  roamed  of  old, 
Even  as  the  wine-dark  Mediterranean 
Is  wider  than  some  wave-relinquished  pool 
Among  its  rocks,  yet  none  the  less  explored 
To  greater  ends  than  all  the  pride  of  Greece 
And  pomp  of  Rome  achieved:  if  my  poor  song 
Now  spread  too  wide  a  sail,  forgive  thy  son 
And  lover,  for  thy  love  was  ever  wont 
To  lift  men  up  in  pride  above  themselves 
To  do  great  deeds  which  of  themselves  alone 
They  could  not;  thou  hast  led  the  unfaltering  feet 
Of  even  thy  meanest  heroes  down  to  death, 
Lifted  poor  knights  to  many  a  great  emprise, 
Taught  them  high  thoughts,  and  though  they  kept 

their  souls 
Lowly  as  little  children,  bidden  them  lift 
Eyes  unappalled  by  all  the  myriad  stars 
That  wheel  around  the  great  white  throne  of  God. 


DRAKE  253 

BOOK  I 


Now  through  the  great  doors  of  the  Council-room 

Magnificently  streamed  in  rich  array 

The  peers  of  England,  regal  of  aspect 

And  grave.     Their  silence  waited  for  the  Queen: 

And  even  now  she  came;  and  through  their  midst, 

Low  as  they  bowed,  she  passed  without  a  smile 

And  took  her  royal  seat.     A  bodeful  hush 

Of  huge  anticipation  gripped  all  hearts, 

Compressed  all  brows,  and  loaded  the  broad  noon 

With  gathering  thunder:  none  knew  what  the  hour 

Might  yet  bring  forth;  but  the  dark  fire  of  war 

Smouldered  in  every  eye;  for  every  clay 

The  Council  met  debating  how  to  join 

Honour  with  peace,  and  every  day  new  tales 

Of  English  wrongs  received  from  the  red  hands 

Of  that  gigantic  Empire,  insolent 

Spain,  spurred  fiercer  resentments  up  like  steeds 

Revolting,  on  the  curb,  foaming  for  battle, 

In  all  men's  minds,  against  whatever  odds. 

On  one  side  of  the  throne  great  Walsingham, 

A  lion  of  England,  couchant,  watchful,  calm, 

Was  now  the  master  of  opinion:  all 

Drew  to  him.     Even  the  hunchback  Burleigh  smiled 

With  half-ironic  admiration  now, 

As  in  the  presence  of  the  Queen  they  met 

Amid  the  sweeping  splendours  of  her  court, 

A  cynic  smile  that  seemed  to  say,  "I,  too, 

Would  fain  regain  that  forthright  heart  of  fire; 

Yet  statesmanship  is  but  a  smoother  name 

For  the  superior  cunning  which  ensures 

Victory."     And  the  Queen,  too,  knowing  her  strength 

And  weakness,  though  her  woman's  heart  leaped  out 

To  courage,  yet  with  woman's  craft  preferred 

The  subtler  strength  of  Burleigh;  for  she  knew 

Mary  of  Scotland  waited  for  that  war 

To  strike  her  in  the  side  for  Rome;  she  knew 

How  many  thousands  lurked  in  England  still 

Remembering  Rome  and  bloody  Mary's  reign. 


254  DRAKE 

France  o'er  a  wall  of  bleeding  Huguenots 
Watched  for  an  hour  to  strike.     Against  all  these 
What  shield  could  England  raise,  this  little  isle, — 
Out-matched,  outnumbered,  perilously  near 
Utter  destruction? 

So  the  long  debate 
Proceeded. 

All  at  once  there  came  a  cry- 
Along  the  streets  and  at  the  palace-gates 
And  at  the  great  doors  of  the  Council-room ! 
Then  through  the  pikes  and  halberds  a  voice  rose 
Imperative  for  entrance,  and  the  guards 
Made  way,  and  a  strange  whisper  surged  around, 
And  through  the  peers  of  England  thrilled  the  blood 
Of  Agincourt  as  to  the  foot  of  the  throne 
Came  Leicester,  for  behind  him  as  he  came 
A  seaman  stumbled,  travel-stained  and  torn, 
Crjdng  for  justice,  and  gasped  out  his  tale. 
"The  Spaniards,"  he  moaned,  "the  Inquisition! 
They  have  taken  all  my  comrades,  all  our  crew, 
And  flung  them  into  dungeons:  there  they  lie 
Waiting  for  England,  waiting  for  their  Queen ! 
Will  you  not  free  them?     I  alone  am  left! 
All  London  is  afire  with  it,  for  this 
Was  one  of  your  chief  city  merchant's  ships — 
The  Pride  of  London,  one  of  Osborne's  ships ! 
But  there  is  none  to  help  them !    I  escaped 
With  shrieks  of  torment  ringing  in  these  ears, 
The  glare  of  torture-chambers  in  these  eyes 
That  see  no  faces  anywhere  but  blind 
Blind  faces,  each  a  bruise  of  white  that  smiles 
In  idiot  agony,  washed  with  sweat  and  blood, 
The  face  of  some  strange  thing  that  once  was  man, 
And  now  can  only  turn  from  side  to  side 
Babbling  like  a  child,  with  mouth  agape, 
And  crying  for  help  where  there  is  none  to  hear 
Save  those  black  vizards  in  the  furnace-glow, 
Moving  like  devils  at  their  hellish  trade.   ..." 
He  paused;  his  memory  sickened,  his  brain  swooned 
Back  into  that  wild  glare  of  obscene  pain ! 


DRAKE  255 

Once  more  to  his  ears  and  nostrils  horribly  crept 

The  hiss  and  smell  of  shrivelling  human  flesh ! 

His  dumb  stare  told  the  rest:  his  head  sank  down; 

He  strove  in  agony 

With  what  all  hideous  words  must  leave  untold ; 

While  Leicester  vouched  him,  "This  man's  tale  is  true!" 

But  like  a  gathering  storm  a  low  deep  moan 

Of  passion,  like  a  tiger's,  slowly  crept 

From  the  grey  lips  of  Walsingham.     "My  Queen, 

Will  you  not  free  them?  " 

Then  Elizabeth, 
Whose  name  is  one  for  ever  with  the  name 
Of  England,  rose;  and  in  her  face  the  gleam 
Of  justice  that  makes  anger  terrible 
Shone,  and  she  stretched  her  glittering  sceptre  forth 
And  spoke,  with  distant  empires  in  her  eyes. 

"My  lords,  this  is  the  last  cry  they  shall  wring 
From  English  lips  unheeded:  we  will  have 
Such  remedies  for  this  as  all  the  world 
Shall  tremble  at!" 

And,  on  that  night,  while  Drake 
Close  in  his  London  lodging  lay  concealed 
Until  he  knew  if  it  were  peace  or  war 
With  Spain  (for  he  had  struck  on  the  high  seas 
At  Spain ;  and  well  he  knew  if  it  were  peace 
His  blood  would  be  made  witness  to  that  bond, 
And  he  must  die  a  pirate's  death  or  fly 
Westward  once  more),  there  all  alone,  he  pored 
By  a  struggling  rushlight  o'er  a  well-thumbed  chart 
Of  magic  islands  in  the  enchanted  seas, 
Dreaming,  as  boys  and  poets  only  dream 
With  those  that  see  God's  wonders  in  the  deep, 
Perilous  visions  of  those  palmy  keys, 
Cocoa-nut  islands,  parrot-haunted  woods, 
Crisp  coral  reefs  and  blue  shark-finned  lagoons 
Fringed  with  the  creaming  foam,  mile  upon  mile 
Of  mystery.     Dream  after  dream  went  by, 
Colouring  the  brown  air  of  that  London  night 
With  many  a  mad  miraculous  romance. 


256  DRAKE 

There,  suddenly,  some  augury,  some  flash 

Showed  him  a  coming  promise,  a  strange  hint, 

Which,  though  he  played  with  it,  he  scarce  believed;. 

Strange  as  in  some  dark  cave  the  first  fierce  gleam 

Of  pirate  gold  to  some  forlorn  maroon 

Who  tiptoes  to  the  heap  and  glances  round 

Askance,  and  dreads  to  hear  what  erst  he  longed 

To  hear — some  voice  to  break  the  hush;  but  bathes 

Both  hands  with  childish  laughter  in  the  gold, 

And  lets  it  trickle  through  his  fevered  palms, 

And  begins  counting  half  a  hundred  times 

And  loses  count  each  time  for  sheer  delight 

And  wonder  in  it;  meantime,  if  he  knew, 

Passing  the  cave-mouth,  far  away,  beyond 

The  still  lagoon,  the  coral  reef,  the  foam 

And  the  white  fluttering  chatter  of  the  birds, 

A  sail  that  might  have  saved  him  comes  and  goes 

Unseen  across  the  blue  Pacific  sea. 

So  Drake,  too,  played  with  fancies;  but  that  sail 

Passed  not  unseen,  for  suddenly  there  came 

A  firm  and  heavy  footstep  to  the  door, 

Then  a  loud  knocking;  and,  at  first,  he  thought 

"I  am  a  dead  man:  there  is  peace  with  Spain, 

And  they  are  come  to  lead  me  to  my  doom." 

But,  as  he  looked  across  one  shoulder,  pride 

Checking  the  fuller  watch  for  what  he  feared, 

The  door  opened;  and  cold  as  from  the  sea 

The  night  rushed  in,  and  there  against  the  gloom, 

Clad,  as  it  seemed,  with  wind  and  cloud  and  rain, 

There  loomed  a  stately  form  and  high  grim  face 

Loaded  with  deadly  thoughts  of  iron  war — 

Walsingham, — in  one  hand  he  held  a  map 

Marked  with  red  lines;  the  other  hand  held  down 

The  rich  encrusted  hilt  of  his  great  sword. 

Then  Drake  rose,  and  the  other  cautiously 

Closing  the  door  drew  near  the  flickering  light 

And  spread  his  map  out  on  the  table,  saying — 

"Mark  for  me  here  the  points  whereat  the  King 

Philip  of  Spain  may  best  be  wounded,  mark 

The  joints  of  his  harness;"  and  Drake  looked  at  him 

Thinking,  "If  he  betray  me,  I  am  dead." 


DRAKE  257 

But  the  soldier  met  his  eyes  and,  with  a  laugh, 

Drake,  quivering  like  a  bloodhound  in  the  leash, 

Stooped,  with  his  finger  pointing  thus  and  thus — 

"Here  would  I  guard,  here  would  I  lie  in  wait, 

Here  would  I  strike  him  through  the  breast  and  throat." 

And  as  he  spoke  he  kindled,  and  began 

To  set  forth  his  great  dreams,  and  high  romance 

Rose  like  a  moon  reflecting  the  true  sun 

Unseen;  and  as  the  full  round  moon  indeed 

Rising  behind  a  mighty  mountain-chain 

Will  shadow  forth  in  outline  grim  and  black 

Its  vast  and  ragged  edges,  so  that  moon 

Of  high  romance  rose  greatly  shadowing  forth 

The  grandeur  of  his  dreams,  until  their  might 

Dawned  upon  Walsingham,  and  he,  too,  saw 

For  a  moment  of  muffled  moonlight  and  wild  cloud 

The  vision  of  the  imperious  years  to  be ! 

But  suddenly  Drake  paused  as  one  who  strays 

Beyond  the  bounds  of  caution,  paused  and  cursed 

His  tongue  for  prating  like  a  moon-struck  boy's. 

"I  am  mad,"  he  cried,  "I  am  mad  to  babble  so!" 

Then  Walsingham  drew  near  him  with  strange  eyes 

And  muttered  slowly,  "Write  that  madness  down; 

Ay,  write  it  down,  that  madman's  plan  of  thine; 

Sign  it,  and  let  me  take  it  to  the  Queen." 

But  the  weather-wiser  seaman  warily 

Answered  him,  "If  it  please  Almighty  God 

To  take  away  our  Queen  Elizabeth, 

Seeing  that  she  is  mortal  as  ourselves, 

England  might  then  be  leagued  with  Spain,  and  I 

Should  here  have  sealed  my  doom.     I  will  not  put 

My  pen  to  paper." 

So,  across  the  charts 
With  that  dim  light  on  each  grim  countenance 
The  seaman  and  the  courtier  subtly  fenced 
With  words  and  thoughts,  but  neither  would  betray 
His  whole  heart  to  the  other.     At  the  last 
Walsingham  gripped  the  hand  of  Francis  Drake 
And  left  him  wondering. 


17 


258  DRAKE 

On  the  third  night  came 
A  messenger  from  Walsingham  who  bade 
Drake  to  the  Palace  where,  without  one  word, 
The  statesman  met  him  in  an  anteroom 
And  led  him,  with  flushed  cheek  and  beating  heart, 
Along  a  mighty  gold-gloomed  corridor 
Into  a  high-arched  chamber,  hung  with  tall 
Curtains  of  gold-fringed  silk  and  tapestries 
From  Flanders  looms,  whereon  were  flowers  and  beasts 
And  forest-work,  great  knights,  with  hawk  on  hand, 
Riding  for  ever  on  their  glimmering  steeds 
Through  bowery  glades  to  some  immortal  face 
Beyond  the  fairy  fringes  of  the  world. 
A  silver  lamp  swung  softly  overhead, 
Fed  with  some  perfumed  oil  that  shed  abroad 
Delicious  light  and  fragrances  as  rare 
As  those  that  stirred  faint  wings  at  eventide 
Through  the  King's  House  in  Lebanon  of  old. 
Into  a  quietness  as  of  fallen  bloom 
Their  feet  sank  in  that  chamber;  and,  all  round, 
Soft  hills  of  Moorish  cushions  dimly  drowsed 
On  glimmering  crimson  couches.     Near  the  lamp 
An  ebony  chess-board  stood  inlaid  with  squares 
Of  ruby  and  emerald,  garnished  with  cinquefoils 
Of  silver,  bears  and  ragged  staves:  the  men, 
Likewise  of  precious  stones,  were  all  arrayed — 
Bishops  and  knights  and  elephants  and  pawns — 
As  for  a  game.     Sixteen  of  them  were  set 
In  silver  white,  the  other  sixteen  gilt. 
Now,  as  Drake  gazed  upon  an  arras,  nigh 
The  farther  doors,  whereon  was  richly  wrought 
The  picture  of  that  grave  and  lovely  queen 
Penelope,  with  cold  hands  weaving  still 
The  unending  web,  while  in  an  outer  court 
The  broad-limbed  wooers  basking  in  the  sun 
On  purple  fleeces  took  from  white-armed  girls, 
Up-kirtled  to  the  knee,  the  crimson  wine; 
There,  as  he  gazed  and  thought,  "Is  this  not  like 
Our  Queen  Elizabeth  who  waits  and  weaves, 
Penelope  of  England,  her  dark  web 
Unendingly  till  England's  Empire  come;" 


DRAKE  259 

There,  as  he  gazed,  for  a  moment,  he  could  vow 

The  pictured  arras  moved,     ty7ell  had  it  been 

Had  he  drawn  sword  and  pierced  it  through  and  through; 

But  he  suspected  nothing  and  said  nought 

To  Walsingham;  for  thereupon  they  heard 

The  sound  of  a  low  lute  and  a  sweet  voice 

Carolling  like  a  gold-caged  nightingale, 

Caught  by  the  fowlers  ere  he  found  his  mate, 

And  singing  all  his  heart  out  evermore 

To  the  unknown  forest-love  he  ne'er  should  see. 

And  Walsingham  smiled  sadly  to  himself, 

Knowing  the  weary  queen  had  bidden  some  maid 

Sing  to  her,  even  as  David  sang  to  Saul; 

Since  all  her  heart  was  bitter  with  her  love 

Or  so  it  was  breathed  (and  there  the  chess-board  stood, 

Her  love's  device  upon  it),  though  she  still, 

For  England's  sake,  must  keep  great  foreign  kings 

Her  suitors,  wedding  no  man  till  she  died. 

Nor  did  she  know  how,  in  her  happiest  hour 

Remembered  now  most  sorrowfully,  the  moon, 

Vicegerent  of  the  sky,  through  summer  dews, 

As  that  sweet  ballad  tells  in  plaintive  rhyme, 

Silvering  the  grey  old  Cumnor  towers  and  all 

The  hollow  haunted  oaks  that  grew  thereby, 

Gleamed  on  a  casement  whence  the  pure  white  face 

Of  Amy  Robsart,  wife  of  Leicester,  wife 

Unknown  of  the  Queen's  lover,  a  frail  bar 

To  that  proud  Earl's  ambition,  quietly  gazed 

And  heard  the  night-owl  hoot  a  dark  presage 

Of  murder  through  her  timid  shuddering  heart. 

But  of  that  deed  Elizabeth  knew  nought; 

Nay,  white  as  Amy  Robsart  in  her  dream 

Of  love  she  listened  to  the  sobbing  lute, 

Bitterly  happy,  proudly  desolate; 

So  heavy  are  all  earth's  crowns  and  sharp  with  thorns! 

But  tenderly  that  high-born  maiden  sang. 


260  DRAKE 


SONG 


Now  the  purple  night  is  past, 

Now  the  moon  more  faintly  glows, 
Dawn  has  through  thy  casement  cast 

Roses  on  thy  breast,  a  rose; 
Now  the  kisses  are  all  done, 

Now  the  world  awakes  anew, 
Noiv  the  charmed  hour  is  gone, 

Let  not  love  go,  too. 


When  old  winter,  creeping  nigh, 

Sprinkles  raven  hair  with  white, 
Dims  the  brightly  glancing  eye, 

Laughs  away  the  dancing  light, 
Roses  may  forget  their  sun, 

Lilies  may  forget  their  dew, 
Beauties  perish,  one  by  one, 

Let  not  love  go,  too. 


Palaces  and  toiccrs  of  pride 

Crumble  year  by  year  away; 
Creeds  like  robes  are  laid  aside, 

Even  our  very  tombs  decay! 
When  the  all-conquering  moth  and  rust 

Gnaw  the  goodly  garment  through, 
When  the  dust  returns  to  dust, 

Let  not  love  go,  too. 


Kingdoms  melt  away  like  snow, 

Gods  are  spent  like  wasting  flames, 
Hardly  the  new  peoples  know 

Their  divine  thrice-worshipped  names/ 
At  the  last  great  hour  of  all, 

When  thou  makest  all  things  new, 
Father,  hear  Thy  children  call, 

Let  not  love  go,  too. 


DRAKE  261 

The  song  ceased:  all  was  still;  and  now  it  seemed 

Power  brooded  on  the  silence,  and  Drake  saw 

A  woman  come  to  meet  him, — tall  and  pale 

And  proud  she  seemed :  behind  her  head  two  wings 

As  of  some  mighty  phantom  butterfly 

Glimmered  with  jewel-sparks  in  the  gold  gloom. 

Her  small,  pure,  grey-eyed  face  above  her  ruff 

Was  chiselled  like  an  agate;  and  he  knew 

It  was  the  Queen.    Low  bent  he  o'er  her  hand; 

And  "Ah,"  she  said,  "Sir  Francis  Walsingham 

Hath  told  me  what  an  English  heart  beats  here ! 

Know  you  what  injuries  the  King  of  Spain 

Hath  done  us?"     Drake  looked  up  at  her:  she  smiled, 

"We  find  you  apt!    Will  you  not  be  our  knight 

For  we  are  helpless" — witchingly  she  smiled — 

"We  are  not  ripe  for  war;  our  policy 

Must  still  be  to  uphold  the  velvet  cloak 

Of  peace;  but  I  would  have  it  mask  the  hand 

That  holds  the  dagger !     Will  you  not  unfold 

Your  scheme  to  us?"     And  then  with  a  low  bow 

Walsingham,  at  a  signal  from  the  Queen, 

Withdrew;  and  she  looked  down  at  Drake  and  smiled; 

And  in  his  great  simplicity  the  man 

Spake  all  his  heart  out  like  some  youthful  knight 

Before  his  Gloriana:  his  heart  burned, 

Knowing  he  talked  with  England,  face  to  face; 

And  suddenly  the  Queen  bent  down  to  him, 

England  bent  down  to  him,  and  his  heart  reeled 

With  the  beauty  of  her  presence — for  indeed 

Women  alone  have  royal  power  like  this 

Within  their  very  selves  enthroned  and  shrined 

To  draw  men's  hearts  out !     Royal  she  bent  down 

And  touched  his  hand  for  a  moment.     "Friend,"  she  said, 

Looking  into  his  face  with  subtle  eyes, 

"I  have  searched  thy  soul  to-night  and  know  full  well 

How  I  can  trust  thee !     Canst  thou  think  that  I, 

The  daughter  of  my  royal  father,  lack 

The  fire  which  every  boor  in  England  feels 

Burning  within  him  as  the  bloody  score 

Which  Spain  writes  on  the  flesh  of  Englishmen 

Mounts  higher  day  by  day?     Am  I  not  Tudor? 


262  DRAKE 

I  am  not  deaf  or  blind;  nor  yet  a  king! 

I  am  a  woman  and  a  queen,  and  where 

Kings  would  have  plunged  into  their  red  revenge 

Or  set  their  throne  up  on  this  temporal  shore, 

As  flatterers  bade  that  wiser  king  Canute, 

Thence  to  command  the  advancing  tides  of  battle 

Till  one  ensanguined  sea  whelm  throne  and  king 

And  kingdom,  friend,  I  take  my  woman's  way, 

Smile  in  mine  enemies'  faces  with  a  heart 

All  hell,  and  undermine  them  hour  by  hour! 

This  island  scarce  can  fend  herself  from  France, 

And  now  Spain  holds  the  keys  of  all  the  world, 

How  should  we  fight  her,  save  that  my  poor  wit 

Hath  won  the  key  to  Philip?     Oh,  I  know 

His  treacherous  lecherous  heart,  and  hour  by  hour 

My  nets  are  drawing  round  him.     I,  that  starve 

My  public  armies,  feed  his  private  foes, 

Nourish  his  rebels  in  the  Netherlands, 

Nay,  sacrifice  mine  own  poor  woman's  heart 

To  keep  him  mine,  and  surely  now  stands  Fate 

With  hand  uplifted  by  the  doors  of  Spain 

Ready  to  knock :  the  time  is  close  at  hand 

When  I  shall  strike,  once,  and  no  second  stroke. 

Remember,  friend,  though  kings  have  fought  for  her, 

This  England,  with  the  trident  in  her  grasp, 

Was  ever  woman;  and  she  waits  her  throne; 

And  thou  canst  speed  it.     Furnish  thee  with  ships, 

Gather  thy  gentleman  adventurers, 

And  be  assured  thy  parsimonious  queen — 

Oh  ay,  she  knows  that  chattering  of  the  world — 

Will  find  thee  wealth  enough.     Then  put  to  sea, 

Fly  the  black  flag  of  piracy  awhile 

Against  these  blackest  foes  of  all  mankind. 

Nay;  what  hast  thou  to  do  with  piracy? 

Hostis  humani  generis  indeed 

Is  Spain:  she  dwells  beyond  the  bounds  of  law; 

Thine  is  no  piracy,  whate'er  men  say, 

Thou  art  a  knight  on  Gloriana's  quest. 

Oh,  lay  that  golden  unction  to  thy  soul, 

This  is  no  piracy,  but  glorious  war, 

Waged  for  thy  country  and  for  all  mankind, 


DRAKE  263 

Therefore  put  out  to  sea  without  one  fear, 

Ransack  their  El  Dorados  of  the  West, 

Pillage  their  golden  galleons,  sap  their  strength 

Even  at  its  utmost  fountains;  let  them  know 

That  there  is  blood,  not  water,  in  our  veins. 

Sail  on,  my  captain,  to  the  glorious  end, 

And,  though  at  first  thou  needs  must  sail  alone 

And  undefended,  ere  that  end  be  reached, 

When  I  shall  give  the  word,  nay,  but  one  word, 

All  England  shall  be  up  and  after  thee, 

The  sword  of  England  shall  shine  over  thee, 

And  round  about  thee  like  a  guardian  fire; 

All  the  great  soul  of  England  shall  be  there; 

Her  mighty  dead  shall  at  that  cry  of  doom 

Rise  from  their  graves  and  in  God's  panoply 

Plunge  with  our  standards  through  immortal  storms 

When  Drake  rides  out  across  the  wreck  of  Rome. 

As  yet  we  must  be  cautious;  let  no  breath 

Escape  thee,  save  to  thy  most  trusted  friends; 

For  now,  if  my  lord  Burleigh  heard  one  word 

Of  all  thou  hast  in  mind,  he  is  so  much 

The  friend  of  caution  and  the  beaten  road, 

He  would  not  rest  till  he  had  spilled  thy  hopes 

And  sealed  thy  doom !    Go  now,  fit  out  thy  ships. 

Walsingham  is  empowered  to  give  thee  gold 

Immediately,  but  look  to  him  for  more 

As  thou  shalt  need  it,  gold  and  gold  to  spare, 

My  golden-hearted  pilot  to  the  shores 

Of  victory — so  farewell;"  and  through  the  gloom 

She  vanished  as  she  came;  and  Drake  groped,  dazed, 

Out  through  the  doors,  and  found  great  Walsingham 

Awaiting  him  with  gold. 

But  in  the  room 
Where  Drake  had  held  his  converse  with  the  Queen 
The  embroidered  arras  moved,  and  a  lean  face, 
White  with  its  long  eavesdropping  upon  death, 
Crept  out  and  peered  as  a  venomous  adder  peers 
From  out  dark  ferns,  then  as  the  reptile  flashes 
Along  a  path  between  two  banks  of  flowers 
Almost  too  swift  for  sight,  a  stealthy  form 
— One  of  the  fifty  spies  whom  Burleigh  paid — 


264  DRAKE 

Passed  down  the  gold-gloomed  corridor  to  seek 
His  master,  whom  among  great  books  he  found, 
Calm,  like  a  mountain  brooding  o'er  the  sea. 
Nor  did  he  break  that  calm  for  all  these  winds 
Of  rumour  that  now  burst  from  out  the  sky. 
His  brow  bent  like  a  cliff  over  his  thoughts, 
And  the  spy  watched  him  half  resentfully, 
Thinking  his  news  well  worth  a  blacker  frown. 
At  last  the  statesman  smiled  and  answered,  "Go; 
Fetch  Thomas  Doughty,  Leicester's  secretary." 

Few  suns  had  risen  and  set  ere  Francis  Drake 

Had  furnished  forth  his  ships  with  guns  and  men, 

Tried  seamen  that  he  knew  in  storms  of  old, — 

Will  Harvest,  who  could  haul  the  ropes  and  fight 

All  day,  and  sing  a  foc'sle  song  to  cheer 

Sea- weary  hearts  at  night;  brave  old  Tom  Moone 

The  carpenter,  whose  faithful  soul  looked  up 

To  Drake's  large  mastery  with  a  mastiff's  eyes; 

And  three-score  trusty  mariners,  all  scarred 

And  weather-beaten.     After  these  there  came 

Some  two-score  gentleman  adventurers, 

Gay  college  lads  or  lawyers  that  had  grown 

Sick  of  the  dusty  Temple,  and  were  fired 

With  tales  of  the  rich  Indies  and  those  tall 

Enchanted  galleons  drifting  through  the  West, 

Laden  with  ingots  and  broad  bars  of  gold. 

Already  some  had  bought  at  a  great  price 

Green  birds  of  Guatemala,  which  they  wore 

On  their  slouched  hats,  tasting  the  high  romance 

And  new-found  colours  of  the  world  like  wine. 

By  night  they  gathered  in  a  marvellous  inn 

Be?ide  the  black  and  secret  flowing  Thames; 

And  joyously  they  tossed  the  magic  phrase 

"Pieces  of  eight"  from  mouth  to  mouth,  and  laughed 

And  held  the  red  wine  up,  night  after  night, 

Around  their  tables,  toasting  Francis  Drake. 

Among  these  came  a  courtier,  and  none  knew 

Or  asked  by  whose  approval,  for  each  thought 

Some  other  brought  him;  yet  he  made  his  way 

Cautiously,  being  a  man  with  a  smooth  tongue, 


DRAKE  265 

The  secretary  of  Leicester;  and  his  name 

Was  Thomas  Doughty.     Most  of  all  with  Drake 

He  won  his  way  to  friendship,  till  at  last 

There  seemed  one  heart  between  them  and  one  soul. 


BOOK  II 

So  on  a  misty  grey  December  morn 

Five  ships  put  out  from  calm  old  Plymouth  Sound; 

Five  little  ships,  the  largest  not  so  large 

As  many  a  coasting  yacht  or  fishing-trawl 

To-day;  yet  these  must  brave  uncharted  seas 

Of  unimagined  terrors,  haunted  glooms, 

And  shadowy  horrors  of  an  unknown  world 

Wild  as  primeval  chaos.     In  the  first, 

The  Golden  Hynde,  a  ship  of  eighteen  guns, 

Drake  sailed:  John  Wynter,  a  queen's  captain,  next 

Brought  out  the  Elizabeth,  a  stout  new  ship 

Of  sixteen  guns.     The  pinnace  Christopher 

Came  next,  in  staunch  command  of  old  Tom  Moone 

Who,  five  years  back,  with  reeking  powder  grimed, 

Off  Cartagena  fought  against  the  stars 

All  night,  and,  as  the  sun  arose  in  blood, 

Knee-deep  in  blood  and  brine,  stood  in  the  dark 

Perilous  hold  and  scuttled  his  own  ship 

The  Swan,  bidding  her  down  to  God's  great  deep 

Rather  than  yield  her  up  a  prize  to  Spain. 

Lastly  two  gentleman-adventurers 

Brought  out  the  new  Swan  and  the  Marygold. 

Their  crews,  all  told,  were  eight  score  men  and  boys. 

Not  only  terrors  of  the  deep  they  braved, 

Bodiless  witchcrafts  of  the  black  abyss, 

Red  gaping  mouths  of  hell  and  gulfs  of  fire 

That  yawned  for  all  who  passed  the  tropic  line; 

But  death  lurked  round  them  from  their  setting  forth, 

Mendoza,  plenipotentiary  of  Spain, 

By  spies  informed,  had  swiftly  warned  his  king, 

Who  sent  out  mandates  through  his  huge  empire 

From  Gaudalchiber  to  the  golden  West 

For  the  instant  sinking  of  all  English  ships 


266  DRAKE 

And  the  instant  execution  of  their  crews 

Who  durst  appear  in  the  Caribbean  sea. 

Moreover,  in  the  pith  of  their  emprise 

A  peril  lurked — Burleigh's  emissaries, 

The  smooth-tongued  Thomas  Doughty,  who  had  brought 

His  brother — unacquitted  of  that  charge 

Of  poisoning,  raised  against  him  by  the  friends 

Of  Essex,  but  in  luckless  time  released 

Lately  for  lack  of  proof,  on  no  strong  plea. 

These  two  wound  through  them  like  two  snakes  at  ease 

In  Eden,  waiting  for  their  venomous  hour. 

Especially  did  Thomas  Doughty  toil 

With  soft  and  flowery  tongue  to  win  his  way; 

And  Drake,  whose  rich  imagination  craved 

For  something  more  than  simple  seaman's  talk, 

Was  marvellously  drawn  to  this  new  friend 

Who  with  the  scholar's  mind,  the  courtier's  gloss, 

The  lawyer's  wit,  the  adventurer's  romance, 

Gold  honey  from  the  blooms  of  Euphues, 

Rare  flashes  from  the  Mermaid  and  sweet  smiles 

Copied  from  Sidney's  self,  even  to  the  glance 

Of  sudden,  liquid  sympathy,  gave  Drake 

That  banquet  of  the  soul  he  ne'er  had  known 

Nor  needed  till  he  knew,  but  needed  now. 

So  to  the  light  of  Doughty's  answering  eyes 

He  poured  his  inmost  thoughts  out,  hour  by  hour; 

And  Doughty  coiled  up  in  the  heart  of  Drake. 


Against  such  odds  the  tiny  fleet  set  sail; 
Yet  gallantly  and  with  heroic  pride, 
Escutcheoned  pavisades,  emblazoned  poops, 
Banners  and  painted  shields  and  close-fights  hung 
With  scarlet  broideries.     Every  polished  gun 
Grinned  through  the  jaws  of  some  heraldic  beast, 
Gilded  and  carven  and  gleaming  with  all  hues; 
While  in  the  cabin  of  the  Golden  Hynde 
Rich  perfumes  floated,  given  by  the  great  Queen 
Herself  to  Drake  as  Captain-General ; 
So  that  it  seemed  her  soul  was  with  the  fleet, 
A  presence  to  remind  him,  far  away, 


DRAKE  267 

Of  how  he  talked  with  England,  face  to  face, — 

No  pirate  he,  but  Gloriana's  knight. 

Silver  and  gold  his  table  furniture, 

Engraved  and  richly  chased,  lavishly  gleamed 

While,  fanned  by  favouring  airs,  the  ships  advanced 

With  streaming  flags  and  ensigns  and  sweet  chords 

Of  music  struck  by  skilled  musicians 

Whom  Drake  brought  with  him,  not  from  vanity, 

But  knowing  how  the  pulse  of  men  beats  high 

To  music;  and  the  hearts  of  men  like  these 

Were  open  to  the  high  romance  of  earth, 

And  they  that  dwelt  so  near  God's  mystery 

Were  proud  of  their  own  manhood.     They  went  ou1 

To  danger,  as  to  a  sweetheart,  far  away. 


Light  as  the  sea-birds  dipping  their  white  wings 
In  foam  before  the  gently  heaving  prows 
Each  heart  beat,  while  the  low  soft  lapping  splash 
Of  water  racing  past  them  ripped  and  tore 
Whiter  and  faster,  and  the  bellying  sails 
Filled  out,  and  the  chalk  cliffs  of  England  sank 
Dwindling  behind  the  broad  grey  plains  of  sea. 
Meekly  content  and  tamely  stay-at-home 
The  sea-birds  seemed  that  piped  across  the  waves* 
And  Drake,  be-mused,  leaned  smiling  to  his  friend 
Doughty  and  said,  "Is  it  not  strange  to  know 
When  we  return  yon  speckled  herring-gulls 
Will  still  be  wheeling,  dipping,  flashing  there? 
We  shall  not  find  a  fairer  land  afar 
Than  those  thyme-scented  hills  we  leave  behind! 
Soon  the  young  lambs  will  bleat  across  the  combes 
And  breezes  will  bring  puffs  of  hawthorn  scent 
Down  Devon  lanes;  over  the  purple  moors 
Lavrocks  will  carol;  and  on  the  village  greens 
Around  the  May-pole,  while  the  moon  hangs  low, 
The  boys  and  girls  of  England  merrily  swing 
In  country  footing  through  the  morrice  dance. 
But  many  of  us  indeed  shall  not  return. 
Then  the  other  with  a  laugh,  "Nay,  like  the  man 
Who  slept  a  hundred  years  we  shall  return 


268  DRAKE 

And  find  our  England  strange:  there  are  great  storms 

Brewing;  God  only  knows  what  we  shall  find — 

Perchance  a  Spanish  king  upon  the  throne! 

What  then?"    And  Drake,  "I  should  put  down  my  helm. 

And  out  once  more  to  the  unknown  golden  West 

To  die,  as  I  have  lived,  in  a  free  land." 

So  said  he,  while  the  white  cliffs  dwindled  down, 

Faded,  and  vanished;  but  the  prosperous  wind 

Carried  the  five  ships  onward  over  the  swell 

Of  swinging,  sweeping  seas,  till  the  sun  sank, 

And  height  o'er  height  the  chaos  of  the  sides 

Broke  out  into  the  miracle  of  the  stars. 

Frostily  glittering,  all  the  Milky  Way 

Lay  bare  like  diamond-dust  upon  the  robe 

Of  some  great  king.     Orion  and  the  Plough 

Glimmered  through  drifting  gulfs  of  silver  fleec:-, 

And,  far  away,  in  Italy,  that  night 

Young  Galileo,  looking  upward,  heard 

The  self-same  whisper  through  that  wild  abyss 

Which  now  called  Drake  out  to  the  unknown  West. 

But,  after  supper,  Drake  came  up  on  deck 

With  Doughty,  and  on  the  cold  poop  as  they  leaned 

And  gazed  across  the  rolling  gleam  and  gloom 

Of  mighty  muffled  seas,  began  to  give 

Voices  to  those  lovely  captives  of  the  brain 

Which,  like  princesses  in  some  forest-tower, 

Still  yearn  for  the  delivering  prince,  the  sweet 

Far  bugle-note  that  calls  from  answering  minds. 

He  told  him  how,  in  those  dark  days  which  now 

Seemed  like  an  evil  dream,  when  the  Princess 

Elizabeth  even  trembled  for  her  life 

And  read  there,  by  the  gleam  of  Smithfield  fires, 

Those  cunning  lessons  of  diplomacy 

Which  saved  her  then  and  now  for  England's  sake, 

He  passed  his  youth.     'Twas  when  the  power  of  Spain 

Began  to  light  the  gloom  with  that  great  glare 

Of  martyrdom  which,  while  the  stars  endure, 

Bears  witness  how  men  overcame  the  world, 

Trod  the  red  flames  beneath  their  feet  like  flowers, 

And  cast  aside  the  blackening  robe  of  flesh, 

While  with  a  crown  of  joy  upon  their  heads, 


DRAKE  269 

Even  as  into  a  palace,  they  passed  through 

The  portals  of  the  tomb  to  prove  their  love 

Stronger  at  least  than  death:  and,  in  those  days 

A  Puritan,  with  iron  in  his  soul, 

Having  in  earlier  manhood  occupied 

His  business  in  great  waters  and  beheld 

The  bloody  cowls  of  the  Inquisition  pass 

Before  the  midnight  moon  as  he  kept  watch; 

And  having  then  forsworn  the  steely  sea 

To  dwell  at  home  in  England  with  his  love 

At  Tavistock  in  Devon,  Edmund  Drake 

Began,  albeit  too  near  the  Abbey  walls, 

To  speak  too  staunchly  for  his  ancient  faith; 

And  with  his  young  child  Francis,  had  to  flee 

By  night  at  last  for  shelter  to  the  coast. 

Little  the  boy  remembered  of  that  flight, 

Pillioned  behind  his  father,  save  the  clang 

And  clatter  of  the  hoofs  on  stony  ground 

Striking  a  sharp  blue  fire,  while  country  tales 

Of  highwaymen  kindled  his  reckless  heart 

As  the  great  steed  went  Shouldering  through  the  night. 

There  Francis,  laying  a  little  sunburnt  hand 

On  the  big  holstered  pistol  at  each  side, 

Dreamed  with  his  wide  grey  eyes  that  he  himself 

Was  riding  out  on  some  freebooting  quest, 

And  felt  himself  heroic.     League  by  league 

The  magic  world  rolled  past  him  as  they  rode, 

Leaving  him  nothing  but  a  memory 

Of  his  own  making.     Vaguely  he  perceived 

A  thousand  meadows  darkly  streaming  by 

With  clouds  of  perfume  from  their  secret  flowers, 

A  wayside  cottage-window  pointing  out 

A  golden  finger  o'er  the  purple  road; 

A  puff  of  garden  roses  or  a  waft 

Of  honeysuckle  blown  along  a  wood, 

While  overhead  that  silver  ship,  the  moon, 

Sailed  slowly  down  the  gulfs  of  glittering  stars, 

Till,  at  the  last,  a  buffet  of  fresh  wind 

Fierce  with  sharp  savours  of  the  stinging  brine 

Against  his  dreaming  face  brought  up  a  roar 

Of  mystic  welcome  from  the  Channel  seas. 


270  DRAKE 

And  there  Drake  paused  for  a  moment,  as  a  song 

Stole  o'er  the  waters  from  the  Marygold 

Where  some  musician,  striking  luscious  chords 

Of  sweet-stringed  music,  freed  his  heart's  desire 

In  symbols  of  the  moment,  which  the  rest, 

And  Doughty  among  them,  scarce  could  understand. 


SONG 

The  moon  is  up:  the  stars  are  bright: 

The  wind  is  fresh  and  free! 
We're  out  to  seek  for  gold  to-night 

Across  the  silver  sea! 
The  world  was  groiring  grey  and  old; 

Break  out  the  sails  again! 
We're  out  to  seek  a  Realm  of  Gold 

Beyond  the  Spanish  Main. 

We're  sick  of  all  the  cringing  knees, 

The  courtly  smiles  and  lies. 
God,  let  Thy  singing  Channel  breeze 

Lighten  our  hearts  and  eyes! 
"  Let  love  no  more  be  bought  and  sold 

For  earthly  loss  or  gain. 
We're  out  to  seek  an  Age  of  Gold 

Beyond  the  Spanish  Alain. 

Beyond  the  light  of  far  Cathay, 

Beyond  all  mortal  dreams, 
Beyond  the  reach  of  night  and  day 

Our  El  Dorado  gleams, 
Revealing — as  the  skies  unfold — 

A  star  without  a  stain, 
The  Glory  of  the  Gates  of  Gold 

Beyond  the  Spatiish  Main. 

And,  as  the  skilled  musician  made  the  words 
Of  momentary  meaning  still  simply 
His  own  eternal  hope  and  heart'  desire, 
Without  belief,  perchance,  in  Drake's  own  quest- 


DRAKE  271 

To  Drake's  own  greater  mind  the  eternal  glory 

Seemed  to  transfigure  his  immediate  hope. 

But  Doughty  only  heard  a  sweet  concourse 

Of  sounds.    They  ceased.    And  Drake  resumed  his  tale 

Of  that  strange  flight  in  boyhood  to  the  sea. 

Next,  the  red-curtained  inn  and  kindly  hands 

Of  Protestant  Plymouth  held  his  memory  long; 

Often  in  strange  and  distant  dreams  he  saw 

That  scene  which  now  he  tenderly  portrayed 

To  Doughty's  half-ironic  smiling  lips, 

Half -sympathetic  eyes;  he  saw  again 

That  small  inn  parlour  with  the  homely  fare 

Set  forth  upon  the  table,  saw  the  gang 

Of  seamen  dripping  from  the  spray  come  in, 

Like  great  new  thoughts  to  some  adventurous  brain. 

Feeding  his  wide  grey  eyes  he  saw  them  stand 

Around  the  crimson  fire  and  stamp  their  feet 

And  scatter  the  salt  drops  from  their  big  sea-boots; 

And  all  that  night  he  lay  awake  and  heard 

Mysterious  thunderings  of  eternal  tides 

Moaning  out  of  a  cold  and  houseless  gloom 

Beyond  the  world,  that  made  it  seem  most  sweet 

To  slumber  in  a  little  four-walled  inn 

Immune  from  all  that  vastness.    But  at  dawn 

He  woke,  he  leapt  from  bed,  he  ran  and  lookt, 

There,  through  the  tiny  high  bright  casement,  there,— 

0,  fairy  vision  of  that  small  boy's  face 

Peeping  at  daybreak  through  the  diamond  pane ! — 

There  first  he  saw  the  wondrous  new-born  world, 

And  round  its  princely  shoulders  wildly  flowing, 

Gemmed  with  a  myriad  clusters  of  the  sun, 

The  magic  azure  mantle  of  the  sea. 

And,  afterwards,  there  came  those  marvellous  days 
When,  on  that  battleship,  a  disused  hulk 
Rotting  to  death  in  Chatham  Reach,  they  found 
Sanctuary  and  a  dwelling-place  at  last. 
For,  Hawkins,  that  great  ship-man,  being  their  friend,  ' 
A  Protestant,  with  power  on  Plymouth  town, 
Nigh  half  whereof  he  owned,  made  Edmund  Drake 
Reader  of  prayer  to  all  the  ships  of  war 


272  DRAKE 

That  lay  therein.    So  there  the  dreaming  boy, 

Francis,  grew  up  in  that  grim  nursery 

Among  the  ropes  and  masts  and  great  dumb  mouths 

Of  idle  ordnance.     In  that  hulk  he  heard 

Many  a  time  his  father  and  his  friends 

Over  some  wild-eyed  troop  of  refugees 

Thunder  against  the  powers  of  Spain  and  Rome, 

"Idolaters  who  defiled  the  House  of  God 

In  England;"  and  all  round  them,  as  he  heard, 

The  clang  and  clatter  of  shipwright  hammers  rang, 

And  hour  by  hour  upon  his  vision  rose, 

In  solid  oak  realit}^,  new  ships, 

As  Ilion  rose  to  music,  ships  of  war, 

The  visible  shapes  and  symbols  of  his  dream, 

Unconscious  yet,  but  growing  as  they  grew, 

A  wondrous  incarnation,  hour  by  hour, 

Till  with  their  towering  masts  they  stood  complete, 

Embodied  thoughts,  in  God's  own  dockyards  built, 

For  Drake  ere  long  to  lead  against  the  world. 

There,  as  to  round  the  tale  with  ringing  gold, 

Across  the  waters  from  the  full-plumed  Sivan 

The  music  of  a  Mermaid  roundela}* — 

Our  Lady  of  the  Sea,  a  Dorian  theme 

Tuned  to  the  soul  of  England — charmed  the  moon. 


SONG 

I 

Queen  Venus  wandered  away  with  a  cry,— 

N'oserez  vous,  mon  bel  ami? — 
For  the  purple  wound  in  Adon's  thigh; 

Je  vous  en  prie,  pity  me; 
With  a  bitter  farewell  from  sky  to  sky, 

And  a  moan,  a  moan,  from  sea  to  sea; 
N'oserez  vous,  mon  bel,  mon  bel, 

N'oserez  vous,  mon  bel  ami? 


DRAKE  273 

II 

The  soft  iEgean  heard  her  sigh, — 

N'oserez  vous,  mon  bel  ami? — 
Heard  the  Spartan  hills  reply, 

Je  vous  en  prie,  pity  me; 
Spain  was  aware  of  her  drawing  nigh 

Foot-gilt  from  the  blossoms  of  Italy; 
N'oserez  vous,  mon  bel,  mon  bel, 

N'oserez  vous,  mon  bel  ami? 


Ill 

In  France  they  heard  her  voice  go  by, — 

N'oserez  vous,  mon  bel  ami? — 
And  on  the  May-wind  droop  and  die, 

Je  vous  en  prie,  pity  me; 
Your  maidens  choose  their  loves,  but  I — 

White  as  I  came  from  the  foam-white  sea, 
N'oserez  vous,  mon  bel,  mon  bel, 

N'oserez  vous,  mon  bel  ami? — 


IV 

The  warm  red-meal-winged  butterfly, — 
N'oserez  vous,  mon  bel  ami? — 

Beat  on  her  breast  in  the  golden  rye, — 
Je  vous  en  prie,  pity  me, — 

Stained  her  breast  with  a  dusty  dye 

Red  as  the  print  of  a  kiss  might  be ! 

N'oserez  vous,  mon  bel,  mon  bel, 

N'oserez  vous,  mon  bel  ami? 


Is  there  no  land,  afar  or  nigh — 

N'oserez  vous,  mon  bel  ami? — 

But  dreads  the  kiss  o'  the  sea?     Ah,  why — 

Je  vous  en  prie,  pity  me ! — 
is 


274  DRAKE 

Why  will  ye  cling  to  the  loves  that  die? 

Is  earth  all  Adon  to  my  plea? 
N'oserez  vous,  mon  bel,  mon  bel, 

N'oserez  vous,  mon  bel  ami? 

VI 

Under  the  warm  blue  summer  sky, — 

N'oserez  vous,  mon  bel  ami? 
With  outstretched  arms  and  a  low  long  sigh, — 

Je  vous  en  prie,  pity  me; — 
Over  the  Channel  they  saw  her  fly 

To  the  white-cliffed  island  that  crowns  the  sea, 
N'oserez  vous,  mon  bel,  mon  bel, 

N'oserez  vous,  mon  bel  ami? 

VII 

England  laughed  as  her  queen  drew  nigh, — 

N'oserez  vous,  mon  bel  ami? 
To  the  white-walled  cottages  gleaming  high, 

Je  vous  en  prie,  pity  me ! 
They  drew  her  in  with  a  joyful  cry 

To  the  hearth  where  she  sits  with  a  babe  on  her  knee, 
She  has  turned  her  moan  to  a  lullaby, 

She  is  nursing  a  son  to  the  kings  of  the  sea, 
N'oserez  vous,  mon  bel,  mon  bel, 

N'oserez  vous,  mon  bel  ami? 

Such  memories,  on  the  plunging  Golden  Hynde, 
Under  the  stars,  Drake  drew  before  his  friend, 
Clomb  for  a  moment  to  that  peak  of  vision, 
That  purple  peak  of  Darien,  laughing  aloud 
O'er  those  wild  exploits  down  to  Rio  Grande 
Which  even  now  had  made  his  fierce  renown 
Terrible  to  all  lonely  ships  of  Spain. 
E'en  now,  indeed,  that  poet  of  Portugal, 
Lope  de  Vega,  filled  with  this  new  fear 
Began  to  meditate  his  epic  muse 
Till,  like  a  cry  of  panic  from  his  lips, 
He  shrilled  the  faint  Dragontea  forth,  wherein 
Drake  is  that  Dragon  of  the  Apocalypse, 
The  dread  Antagonist  of  God  and  Man. 


DRAKE  275 

Well  had  it  been  for  Doughty  on  that  night 

Had  he  not  heard  what  followed ;  for,  indeed, 

When  two  minds  clash,  not  often  does  the  less 

Conquer  the  greater;  but,  without  one  thought 

Of  evil,  seeing  they  now  were  safe  at  sea, 

Drake  told  him,  only  somewhat,  yet  too  much, 

Of  that  close  conference  with  the  Queen.     And  lo, 

The  face  of  Doughty  blanched  with  a  slow  thought 

That  crept  like  a  cold  worm  through  all  his  brain, 

"Thus  much  I  knew,  though  secretly,  before; 

But  here  he  freely  tells  me  as  his  friend; 

If  I  be  false  and  he  be  what  they  say, 

His  knowledge  of  my  knowledge  will  mean  death." 

But  Drake  looked  round  at  Doughty  with  a  smile 

And  said,  "Forgive  me  now:  thou  art  not  used 

To  these  cold  nights  at  sea!  thou  tremblest,  friend: 

Let  us  go  down  and  drink  a  cup  of  sack 

To  our  return!"     And  at  that  kindly  smile 

Doughty  shook  off  his  nightmare  mood,  and  thought, 

"The  yard-arm  is  for  dogs,  not  gentlemen! 

Even  Drake  would  not  misuse  a  man  of  birth!" 

And  in  the  cabin  of  the  Golden  Hynde 

Revolving  subtle  treacheries  he  sat. 

There  with  the  sugared  phrases  of  the  court 

Bartering  beads  for  gold,  he  drew  out  all 

The  simple  Devon  seaman's  inmost  heart, 

And  coiled  up  in  the  soul  of  Francis  Drake. 

There  in  the  solemn  night  they  interchanged 

Lies  for  sweet  confidences.     From  one  wall 

The  picture  of  Drake's  love  looked  down  on  him; 

And,  like  a  bashful  schoolboy's,  that  bronzed  face 

Flushed  as  he  blurted  out  with  brightening  eyes 

And  quickening  breath  how  he  had  seen  her  first, 

Crowned  on  the  village  green,  a  Queen  of  May. 

Her  name,  too,  was  Elizabeth,  he  said, 

As  if  it  proved  that  she,  too,  was  a  queen, 

Though  crowned  with  milk-white  Devon  may  alone, 

And  queen  but  of  one  plot  of  meadow-sweet. 

As  yet,  he  said,  he  had  only  kissed  her  hand, 

Smiled  in  her  eyes  and — there  Drake  also  flinched, 

Thinking,  "I  ne'er  may  see  her  face  again." 


276  DRAKE 

And  Doughty  comforted  his  own  dark  heart 
Thinking,  "I  need  not  fear  so  soft  a  soul 
As  this";  and  yet,  he  wondered  how  the  man, 
Seeing  his  love  so  gripped  him,  none  the  less 
Could  leave  her,  thus  to  follow  after  dreams; 
For  faith  to  Doughty  was  an  unknown  word, 
And  trustfulness  the  property  of  fools. 
At  length  they  parted,  each  to  his  own  couch, 
Doughty  with  half  a  chuckle,  Francis  Drake 
With  one  old-fashioned  richly  grateful  prayer 
Blessing  all  those  he  loved,  as  he  had  learnt 
Beside  his  mother's  knee  in  Devon  days. 

So  all  night  long  they  sailed;  but  when  a  rift 

Of  orchard  crimson  broke  the  yellowing  gloom 

And  barred  the  closety  clouded  East  with  dawn, 

Behold,  a  giant  galleon  overhead, 

Lifting  its  huge  black  shining  sides  on  high, 

Loomed  like  some  misty  monster  of  the  deep: 

And,  sullenly  rolling  out  great  gorgeous  folds, 

Over  her  rumbled  like  a  thunder-cloud 

The  heavy  flag  of  Spain.     The  splendid  poop, 

Mistily  lustrous  as  a  dragon's  hoard 

Seen  in  some  magic  cave-mouth  o'er  the  sea 

Through  shimmering  April  sunlight  after  rain, 

Blazed  to  the  morning;  and  her  port-holes  grinned 

With  row  on  row  of  cannon.     There  at  once_ 

One  sharp  shrill  whistle  sounded,  and  those  five  , 

Small  ships,  mere  minnows  clinging  to  the  flanks 

Of  that  Leviathan,  unseen,  unheard, 

Undreamt  of,  grappled  her.     She  seemed  asleep, 

Swinging  at  ease  with  great  half-slackened  sails, 

Majestically  careless  of  the  dawn. 

There  in  the  very  native  seas  of  Spain, 

There  with  the  yeast  and  foam  of  her  proud  cliffs, 

Her  own  blue  coasts,  in  sight  across  the  waves, 

Up  her  Titanic  sides  without  a  sound 

The  naked-footed  British  seamen  swarmed 

With  knives  between  their  teeth:  then  on  her  decks 

They  dropped  like  panthers,  and  the  softly  fierce 

Black-bearded  watch  of  Spaniards,  all  amazed, 


DRAKE  27* 

Rubbing  their  eyes  as  if  at  a  wild  dream, 
Upraised  a  sudden  shout,  El  Draque!  El  Draque! 
And  flashed  their  weapons  out,  but  all  too  late; 
For,  ere  their  sleeping  comrades  reached  the  deck, 
The  little  watch,  out-numbered  and  out-matched, 
Lay  bound,  and  o'er  the  hatches  everywhere 
The  points  of  naked  cutlasses  on  guard 
Gleamed,  and  without  a  struggle  those  below 
Gave  up  their  arms,  their  poignards  jewelled  thick 
With  rubies,  and  their  blades  of  Spanish  steel. 

Then  onward  o'er  the  great  grey  gleaming  sea 

They  swept  with  their  rich  booty,  night  and  day. 

Five  other  prizes,  one  for  every  ship, 

Out  of  the  seas  of  Spain  the}'  suddenly  caught 

And  carried  with  them,  laughing  as  they  went — 

"Now,  now  indeed  the  Rubicon  is  crossed; 

Now  have  we  singed  the  eyelids  and  the  beard 

Of  Spain;  now  have  we  roused  the  hornet's  nest; 

Now  shall  we  sail  against  a  world  in  arms; 

Now  we  have  nought  between  us  and  black  death 

But  our  own  hands,  five  ships,  and  three  score  guns." 

So  laughed  they,  plunging  through  the  bay  of  storms, 

Biscay,  and  past  Gibraltar,  not  yet  clothed 

With  British  thunder,  though,  as  one  might  dream, 

Gazing  in  dim  prophetic  grandeur  out 

Across  the  waves  while  that  small  fleet  went  by, 

Or  watching  them  with  love's  most  wistful  fear 

As  they  plunged  Southward  to  the  lonely  coasts 

Of  Africa,  till  right  in  front  up-soared, 

Tremendous  over  ocean,  Teneriffe, 

Cloud-robed,  but  crowned  with  colours  of  the  dawn. 

Already  those  two  traitors  were  at  work, 
Doughty  and  his  false  brother,  among  the  crews, 
Who  knew  not  yet  the  vastness  of  their  quest, 
Nor  dreamed  of  aught  beyond  the  accustomed  world; 
For  Drake  had  kept  it  secret,  and  the  thoughts 
Of  some  that  he  had  shipped  before  the  mast 
Set  sail  scarce  farther  than  for  Mogadore 


278  DRAKE 

In  West  Morocco,  or  at  the  utmost  mark 

For  northern  Egypt,  by  the  midnight  woods 

And  crystal  palace  roofed  with  chrysoprase 

Where  Prester  John  had  reigned  five  hundred  years, 

And  Sydon,  river  of  jewels,  through  the  dark 

Enchanted  gorges  rolled  its  rays  along! 

Some  thought  of  Rio  Grande;  but  scarce  to  ten 

The  true  intent  was  known;  while  to  divert 

The  rest  from  care  the  skilled  musicians  played. 

But  those  two  Doughtys  cunningly  devised 

By  chance-dropt  words  to  breathe  a  hint  abroad; 

And  through  the  foc'sles  crept  a  grisly  fear 

Of  things  that  lay  beyond  the  bourne  of  earth, 

Till  even  those  hardy  seamen  almost  quailed; 

And  now,  at  any  whisper,  they  might  turn 

With  terror  in  their  eyes.     They  might  refuse 

To  sail  into  that  fabled  burning  Void 

Or  brave  that  primum  mobile  which  drew 

O'er-daring  ships  into  the  jaws  of  hell 

Beyond  the  Pole  Ar»':ai*';icke,  where  the  sea 

Rushed  down  through  fiery  mountains,  and  no  sail 

Could  e'er  return  against  its  roaring  stream. 


Now  down  the  coast  of  Barbary  they  cruised 
Till  Christmas  Eve  embraced  them  in  the  heart 
Of  summer.     In  a  bay  of  mellow  calm 
They  moored,  and  as  the  fragrant  twilight  brought 
The  stars,  the  sound  of  song  and  dance  arose; 
And  down  the  shores  in  stealthy  silence  crept, 
Out  of  the  massy  forest's  emerald  gloom, 
The  naked,  dark-limbed  children  of  the  night, 
Unseen,  to  gaze  upon  the  floating  glare 
Of  revelry;  unheard,  to  hear  that  strange 
New  music  of  the  gods,  where  o'er  the  soft 
Ripple  and  wash  of  the  lanthorn-crimsoned  tide 
Will  Harvest's  voice  above  the  chorus  rang. 


DRAKE  279 

SONG 

hi  Devonshire,  now,  the  Christmas  chime 

Is  carolling  over  the  lea; 
And  the  sexton  shovels  away  the  snow 

From  the  old  church  porch,  maybe; 
And  the  ivaits  ivith  their  lanthorns  and  noses  a-glow 

Come  round  for  their  Christmas  fee; 
But,  as  in  old  England  it's  Christmas-time, 

Why,  so  is  it  here  at  sea, 
My  lads, 

Why,  so  is  it  here  at  sea! 


When  the  ship  comes  home,  from  turret  to  poop 

Filled  full  with  Spanish  gold, 
There'll  be  many  a  country  dance  and  joke, 

And  many  a  tale  to  be  told; 
Every  old  woman  shall  have  a  red  cloak 

To  fend  her  against  the  cold; 
And  every  old  man  shall  have  a  big  round  stoup 

Of  jolly  good  ale  and  old, 
My  lads, 

Jolly  good  ale  and  old! 


But  on  the  morrow  came  a  prosperous  wind 

Whereof  they  took  advantage,  and  shook  out 

The  flashing  sails,  and  held  their  Christmas  feast 

Upon  the  swirling  ridges  of  the  sea: 

And,  sweeping  Southward  with  full  many  a  rouse 

And  shout  of  laughter,  at  the  fall  of  day, 

While  the  black  prows  drove,  leapt,  and  plunged,  and  ploughed 

Through  the  broad  dazzle  of  sunset-coloured  tides, 

Outside  the  cabin  of  the  Golden  Hynde, 

Where  Drake  and  his  chief  captains  dined  in  state, 

The  skilled  musicians  made  a  great  new  song. 


280  DRAKE 

SONG 


Happy  by  the  hearth  sit  the  lasses  and  the  lads,  now, 

Roasting  of  their  chestnuts,  toasting  of  their  toes! 
When  the  door  is  opened  to  a  blithe  new-comer, 

Stamping  like  a  ploughman  to  shuffle  off  the  snows; 
Rosy  flower-like  faces  through  the  soft  red  firelight 

Float  as  if  to  greet  us,  far  away  at  sea, 
Sigh  as  they  remember,  and  turn  the  sigh  to  laughter, 
Kiss  beneath  the  mistletoe  and  wonder  at  their  glee. 
With  their  "heigh  ho,  the  holly! 
This  life  is  most  jolly!" 
Christmas-time  is  kissing-time, 
Away  with  melancholy! 

II 

Ah,  the  Yule  of  England,  the  happy  Yule  of  England, 

Yule  of  berried  holly  and  the  merry  mistletoe; 
The  boar's  head,  the  brown  ale,  the  blue  snapdragon, 
Yule  of  groaning  tables  and  the  crimson  log  aglow! 
Yule,  the  golden  bugle  to  the  scattered  old  companions, 
Ringing  as  with  laughter,  shining  as  through  tears! 
Loved  of  little  children,  oh  guard  the  holy  Yidctide, 

Guard  it,  men  of  England,  for  the  child  beyond  the  years. 
With  its  "heigh  ho,  the  holly!" 
Away  with  melancholy! 
Christmas-time  is  kissing-time, 
"  This  life  is  most  jolly!" 

Now  to  the  Fortunate  Islands  of  old  time 

They  came,  and  found  no  glory  as  of  old 

Encircling  them,  no  red  ineffable  calm 

Of  sunset  round  crowned  faces  pale  with  bliss 

Like  evening  stars.     Rugged  and  desolate 

Those  isles  were  when  they  neared  them,  though  afar 

They  beautifully  smouldered  in  the  sun 

Like  dusky  purple  jewels  fringed  and  frayed 

With  silver  foam  across  that  ancient  sea 


DRAKE  281 

Of.  wonder.     On  the  largest  of  the  seven 

Drake  landed  Doughty  with  his  musketeers 

To  exercise  their  weapons  and  to  seek 

Supplies  among  the  matted  uncouth  huts 

Which,  as  the  ships  drew  round  each  ragged  cliff, 

Crept  like  remembered  misery  into  sight; 

Oh,  like  the  strange  dull  waking  from  a  dream 

They  blotted  out  the  rosy  courts  and  fair 

Imagined  marble  thresholds  of  the  King 

Achilles  and  the  heroes  that  were  gone. 

But  Drake  cared  nought  for  these  things.     Such  a  heart 

He  had,  to  make  each  utmost  ancient  bourne 

Of  man's  imagination  but  a  point 

Of  new  departure  for  his  Golden  Dream. 

But  Doughty  with  his  men  ashore,  alone, 

Among  the  sparse  wind-bitten  groves  of  palm, 

Kindled  their  fears  of  all  they  must  endure 

On  that  immense  adventure.     Nay,  sometimes 

He  hinted  of  a  voyage  far  beyond 

All  history  and  fable,  far  beyond 

Even  that  Void  whence  only  two  returned, — 

Columbus,  with  his  men  in  mutiny; 

Magellan,  who  could  only  hound  his  crew 

Onward  by  threats  of  death,  until  they  turned 

In  horror  from  the  Threat  that  lay  before, 

Preferring  to  be  hanged  as  mutineers 

Rather  than  venture  farther.     Nor  indeed 

Did  even  Magellan  at  the  last  return ; 

But,  with  all  hell  around  him,  in  the  clutch 

Of  devils  died  upon  some  savage  isle 

By  poisonous  black  enchantment.     Not  in  vain 

Were  Doughty's  words  on  that  volcanic  shore 

Among  the  stunted  dark  acacia  trees, 

Whose  heads,  all  bent  one  way  by  the  trade-wind, 

Pointed  North-east  by  North,  South-west  by  West 

Ambiguous  sibyls  that  with  wizened  arms 

Mysteriously  declared  a  twofold  path, 

Homeward  or  onward.     But  aboard  the  ships, 

Among  the  hardier  seamen,  old  Tom  Moone, 

With  one  or  two  stout  comrades,  overbore 

All  doubts  and  questionings  with  blither  tales 


282  DRAKE 

Of  how  they  sailed  to  Darien  and  heard 

Nightingales  in  November  all  night  long 

As  down  a  coast  like  Paradise  they  cruised 

Through  seas  of  lasting  summer,  Eden  isles, 

Where  birds  like  rainbows,  butterflies  like  gems, 

And  flowers  like  coloured  fires  o'er  fairy  creeks 

Floated  and  flashed  beneath  the  shadowy  palms; 

While  ever  and  anon  a  bark  canoe 

With  naked  Indian  maidens  flower-festooned 

Put  out  from  shadowy  coves,  laden  with  fruit 

Ambrosial  o'er  the  silken  shimmering  sea. 

And  once  a  troop  of  nut-brown  maidens  came — 

So  said  Tom  Moone,  a  twinkle  in  his  eye — 

Swimming  to  meet  them  through  the  warm  blue  waves 

And  wantoned  through  the  water,  like  those  nymphs 

Which  one  green  April  at  the  Mermaid  Inn 

Should  hear  Kit  Marlowe  mightily  portray, 

Among  his  boon  companions,  in  a  song 

Of  Love  that  swam  the  sparkling  Hellespont 

Upheld  by  nymphs,  not  lovelier  than  these, — 

Though  whiter  yet  not  lovelier  than  these — 

For  those  like  flowers,  but  these  like  rounded  fruit 

Rosily  ripening  through  the  clear  tides  tossed 

From  nut-brown  breast  and  arm  all  round  the  ship 

The  thousand-coloured  spray.     Shapely  of  limb 

They  were;  but  as  they  laid  their  small  brown  hands 

Upon  the  ropes  we  cast  them,  Captain  Drake 

Suddenly  thundered  at  them  and  bade  them  pack 

For  a  troop  of  naughty  wenches !     At  that  tale 

A  tempest  of  fierce  laughter  rolled  around 

The  foc'sle;  but  one  boy  from  London  town, 

A  pale-faced  prentice,  run-away  to  sea, 

Asking  why  Drake  had  bidden  them  pack  so  soon, 

Tom  Moone  turned  to  him  with  his  deep-sea  growl, 

"Because  our  Captain  is  no  pink-eyed  boy 

Nor  soft-limbed  Spaniard,  but  a  staunch-souled  Man, 

Full-blooded;  nerved  like  iron;  with  a  girl 

He  loves  at  home  in  Devon;  and  a  mind 

For  ever  bent  upon  some  mighty  goal, 

I  know  not  what — but  'tis  enough  for  me 

To  know  my  Captain  knows."     And  then  he  told 


DRAKE  283 

How  sometimes  o'er  the  gorgeous  forest  gloom 
Some  marble  city,  rich,  mysterious,  white, 
An  ancient  treasure-house  of  Aztec  kings, 
Or  palace  of  forgotten  Incas  gleamed; 
And  in  their  dim  rich  lofty  cellars  gold, 
Beyond  all  wildest  dreams,  great  bars  of  gold, 
Like  pillars,  tossed  in  mighty  chaos,  gold 
And  precious  stones,  agate  and  emerald, 
Diamond,  sapphire,  ruby,  and  sardonyx. 
So  said  he,  as  they  waited  the  return 
Of  Doughty,  resting  in  the  foc'sle  gloom, 
Or  idly  couched  about  the  sun-swept  decks 
On  sails  or  coils  of  rope,  while  overhead 
Some  boy  would  climb  the  rigging  and  look  out, 
Arching  his  hand  to  see  if  Doughty  came. 
But  when  he  came,  he  came  with  a  strange  face 
Of  feigned  despair;  and  with  a  stammering  tongue 
He  vowed  he  could  not  find  those  poor  supplies 
Which  Drake  himself  in  other  days  had  found 
Upon  that  self-same  island.     But,  perchance, 
This  was  a  barren  year,  he  said.     And  Drake 
Looked  at  him,  suddenly,  and  at  the  musketeers. 
Their  eyes  were  strained;  their  faces  wore  a  cloud. 
That  night  he  said  no  more;  but  on  the  morn, 
Mistrusting  nothing,  Drake  with  subtle  sense 
Of  weather-wisdom,  through  that  little  fleet 
Distributed  his  crews  anew.     And  all 
The  prisoners  and  the  prizes  at  those  isles 
They  left  behind  them,  taking  what  they  would 
From  out  their  carven  cabins, — glimmering  silks, 
Chiselled  Toledo  blades,  and  broad  doubloons. 
And  lo,  as  they  weighed  anchor,  far  away 
Behind  them  on  the  blue  horizon  line 
It  seemed  a  city  of  towering  masts  arose; 
And  from  the  crow's  nest  of  the  Golden  Hynde 
A  seaman  cried,  "By  God;  the  hunt  is  up!" 
And  like  a  tide  of  triumph  through  their  veins 
The  red  rejoicing  blood  began  to  race 
As  there  they  saw  the  avenging  ships  of  Spain, 
Eight  mighty  galleons,  nosing  out  their  trail. 
And  Drake  growled,"  Oh,  my  lads  of  Bideford, 


284  DRAKE 

It  cuts  my  heart  to  show  the  hounds  our  heels; 

But  we  must  not  emperil  our  great  quest ! 

Such  fights  as  that  must  wait — as  our  reward 

When  we  return.    Yet  I  will  not  put  on 

One  stitch  of  sail.     So,  lest  they  are  not  too  slow 

To  catch  us,  clear  the  decks.     God,  I  would  like 

To  fight  them!"    So  the  little  fleet  advanced 

With  decks  all  cleared  and  shotted  guns  and  men 

Bare-armed  beside  them,  hungering  to  be  caught, 

And  quite  distracted  from  their  former  doubts; 

For  danger,  in  that  kind,  they  never  feared. 

But  soon  the  heavy  Spaniards  dropped  behind; 

And  not  in  vain  had  Thomas  Doughty  sown, 

The  seeds  of  doubt;  for  many  a  brow  grew  black 

With  sullen-seeming  care  that  erst  was  gay. 

But  happily  and  in  good  time  there  came, 

Not  from  behind  them  now,  but  right  in  front, 

On  the  first  sun-down  of  their  quest  renewed, 

Just  as  the  sea  grew  dark  around  their  ships, 

A  chance  that  loosed  heart-gnawing  doubt  in  deeds. 

For  through  a  mighty  zone  of  golden  haze 

Blotting  the  purple  of  the  gathering  night 

A  galleon  like  a  floating  mountain  moved 

To  meet  them,  clad  with  sunset  and  with  dreams. 

Her  masts  and  spars  immense  in  jewelled  mist 

Shimmered :  her  rigging,  like  an  emerald  web 

Of  golden  spiders,  tangled  half  the  stars ! 

Embodied  sunset,  dragging  the  soft  sky 

O'er  dazzled  ocean,  through  the  night  she  drew 

Out  of  the  unknown  lands;  and  round  a  prow 

That  jutted  like  a  moving  promontory 

Over  a  cloven  wilderness  of  foam, 

Upon  a  lofty  blazoned  scroll  her  name 

San  Salvador  challenged  obsequious  isles 

Where'er  she  rode;  who  kneeling  like  dark  slaves 

Before  some  great  Sultan  must  lavish  forth 

From  golden  cornucopias,  East  and  West, 

Red  streams  of  rubies,  cataracts  of  pearl. 

But,  at  a  signal  from  their  admiral,  all 

Those  five  small  ships  lay  silent  in  the  gloom 

Which,  just  as  if  some  god  were  on  their  side, 


DRAKE  285 

Covered  them  in  the  dark  troughs  of  the  waves, 

Letting  her  pass  to  leeward.     On  she  came, 

Blazing  with  lights,  a  City  of  the  Sea, 

Belted  with  crowding  towers  and  clouds  of  sail, 

And  round  her  bows  a  long-drawn  thunder  rolled 

Splendid  with  foam;  but  ere  she  passed  them  by 

Drake  gave  the  word,  and  with  one  crimson  flash 

Two  hundred  yards  of  black  and  hidden  sea 

Leaped  into  sight  between  them  as  the  roar 

Of  twenty  British  cannon  shattered  the  night. 

Then  after  her  they  drove,  like  black  sea-wolves 

Behind  some  royal  high-branched  stag  of  ten, 

Hanging  upon  those  bleeding  foam-flecked  flanks, 

Leaping,  snarling,  worrying,  as  they  went 

In  full  flight  down  the  wind;  for  those  light  ships 

Much  speedier  than  their  huge  antagonist, 

Keeping  to  windward,  worked  their  will  with  her. 

In  vain  she  burnt  wild  lights  and  strove  to  scan 

The  darkening  deep.     Her  musketeers  in  vain 

Provoked  the  crackling  night  with  random  fires: 

In  vain  her  broadside  bellowings  burst  at  large 

As  if  the  Gates  of  Erebus  unrolled. 

For  ever  and  anon  the  deep-sea  gloom 

From  some  new  quarter,  like  a  dragon's  mouth 

Opened  and  belched  forth  crimson  flames  and  tore 

Her  sides  as  if  with  iron  claws  unseen; 

Till,  all  at  once,  rough  voices  close  at  hand 

Out  of  the  darkness  thundered,  " Grapple  her!" 

And,  falling  on  their  knees,  the  Spaniards  knew 

The  Dragon  of  that  red  Apocalypse. 

There  with  one  awful  cry,  El  Draque!  El  Draque! 

They  cast  their  weapons  from  them ;  for  the  moon 

Rose,  eastward,  and,  against  her  rising,  black 

Over  the  bloody  bulwarks,  Francis  Drake, 

Grasping  the  great  hilt  of  his  naked  sword, 

Towered  for  a  moment  to  their  startled  eyes 

Through  all  the  zenith  like  the  King  of  Hell. 

Then  he  leaped  down  upon  their  shining  decks, 

And  after  him  swarmed  and  towered  and  leapt  in  haste 

A  brawny  band  of  three  score  Englishmen, 

Gigantic  as  the.v  loomed  asainst  the  sky 


286  DRAKE 

And  risen,  it  seemed,  by  miracle  from  the  sea. 

So  small  were  those  five  ships  below  the  walls 

Of  that  huge  floating  mountain.     Royally 

Drake,  from  the  swart  commander's  trembling  hands 

Took  the  surrendered  sword,  and  bade  his  men 

Gather  the  fallen  weapons  on  an  heap, 

And  placed  a  guard  about  them,  while  the  moon 

Silvering  the  rolling  seas  for  many  a  mile 

Glanced  on  the  huddled  Spaniards'  rich  attire, 

As  like  one  picture  of  despair  they  grouped 

Under  the  splintered  main-mast's  creaking  shrouds, 

And  the  great  swinging  shadows  of  the  sails 

Mysteriously  swept  the  gleaming  decks; 

Where  many  a  butt  of  useless  cannon  gloomed 

Along  the  accoutred  bulwarks  or  upturned, 

As  the  ship  wallowed  in  the  heaving  deep, 

Dumb  mouths  of  empty  menace  to  the  stars. 


Then  Drake  appointed  Doughty,  with  a  guard, 

To  sail  the  prize  on  to  the  next  dim  isle 

Where  they  might  leave  her,  taking  aught  they  would 

From  out  her  carven  cabins  and  rich  holds. 

And  Doughty's  heart  leaped  in  him  as  he  thought, 

"I  have  my  chance  at  last";  but  Drake,  who  still 

Trusted  the  man,  made  surety  doubly  sure, 

And  in  his  wary  weather-wisdom  sent 

■ — Even  as  a  breathing  type  of  friendship,  sent — 

His  brother,  Thomas  Drake,  aboard  the  prize; 

But  set  his  brother,  his  own  flesh  and  blood, 

Beneath  the  man,  as  if  to  say,  "I  give 

My  loyal  friend  dominion  over  me." 

So  courteously  he  dealt  with  him;  but  he, 

Seeing  his  chance  once  more  slipping  away, 

Raged  inwardly  and,  from  his  own  false  heart 

Imputing  his  own  evil,  he  contrived 

A  cunning  charge  that  night;  and  when  they  came 

Next  day,  at  noon,  upon  the  destined  isle, 

He  suddenly  spat  the  secret  venom  forth, 

With  such  fierce  wrath  in  his  defeated  soul 

That  he  himself  almost  believed  the  charge. 


DRAKE  287 

For  when  Drake  stepped  on  the  San  Salvador 
To  order  all  things  duly  about  the  prize, 
What  booty  they  must  keep  and  what  let  go, 
Doughty  received  him  with  a  blustering  voice 
Of  red  mock-righteous  wrath,  "Is  this  the  way 
Englishmen  play  the  pirate,  Francis  Drake? 
While  thou  wast  dreaming  of  thy  hero's  crown — 
God  save  the  mark ! — thy  brother,  nay,  thy  spy, 
Must  play  the  common  pilferer,  must  convert 
The  cargo  to  his  uses,  rob  us  all 
Of  what  we  risked  our  necks  to  win:  he  wears 
The  ransom  of  an  emperor  round  his  throat 
That  might  enrich  us  all.     Who  saw  him  wear 
That  chain  of  rubies  ere  last  night?" 

And  Drake, 
"Answer  him,  brother;"  and  his  brother  smiled 
And  answered,  "Nay,  I  never  wore  this  chain 
Before  last  night;  but  Doughty  knows,  indeed, 
For  he  was  with  me — and  none  else  was  there 
But  Doughty — 'tis  my  word  against  his  word, 
That  close  on  midnight  we  were  summoned  down 
To  an  English  seaman  who  lay  dying  below 
Unknown  to  any  of  us,  a  prisoner 
In  chains,  that  had  been  captured  none  knew  where, 
For  all  his  mind  was  far  from  Darien, 
And  wandering  evermore  through  Devon  lanes 
At  home;  whom  we  released;  and  from  his  waist 
He  took  this  hidden  chain  and  gave  it  me, 
Begging  me  that  if  ever  I  returned 
To  Bideford  in  Devon  I  would  go 
With  whatsoever  wealth  it  might  produce 
To  his  old  mother  who,  with  wrinkled  hands 
In  some  small  white-washed  cottage  o'er  the  sea, 
Where  wall-flowers  bloom  in  April,  even  now 
Is  turning  pages  of  the  well-worn  Book 
And  praying  for  her  son's  return,  nor  knows 
That  he  lies  cold  upon  the  heaving  main. 
But  this  he  asked;  and  this  in  all  good  faith 
I  swore  to  do;  and  even  now  he  died, 
And  hurrying  hither  from  his  side  I  clasped 
His  chain  of  rubies  round  my  neck  awhile, 


288  DRAKE 

In  full  sight  of  the  sun.     I  have  no  more 

To  say."     Then  up  spoke  Hatton's  trumpeter: 

"But  I  have  more  to  say.    Last  night  I  saw 

Doughty,  but  not  in  full  sight  of  the  sun, 

Nor  once,  nor  twice,  but  three  times  at  the  least, 

Carrying  chains  of  gold,  clusters  of  gems, 

And  whatsoever  wealth  he  could  convey  • 

Into  his  cabin  and  smuggle  in  smallest  space." 

"Nay,"  Doughty  stammered,  mixing  sneer  and  lie, 

Yet  bolstering  up  his  courage  with  the  thought 

That  being  what  courtiers  called  a  gentleman 

He  ranked  above  the  rude  sea-discipline, 

"Nay,  they  were  free  gifts  from  the  Spanish  crew 

Because  I  treated  them  with  courtesy." 

Then  bluff  Will  Harvest,  "  That  perchance  were  true, 

For  he  hath  been  close  closeted  for  hours 

With  their  chief  officers,  drinking  their  health 

In  our  own  war-bought  wine,  while  down  below 

Their  captured  English  seaman  groaned  his  last." 

Then  Drake,  whose  utter  silence,  with  a  sense 

Of  infinite  power  and  justice,  ruled  their  hearts, 

Suddenly  thundered — and  the  traitor  blanched 

And  quailed  before  him.     "This  my  flesh  and  blood 

I  placed  beneath  thee  as  my  dearer  self! 

But  thou,  in  trampling  on  him,  shalt  not  say 

I  charged  thy  brother.     Nay,  thou  chargest  me! 

Against  me  only  hast  thou  stirred  this  strife; 

And  now,  by  God,  shalt  thou  learn,  once  for  all, 

That  I,  thy  captain  for  this  voyage,  hold 

The  supreme  power  of  judgment  in  my  hands. 

Get  thee  aboard  my  flagship !     When  I  come 

I  shall  have  more  to  say  to  thee;  but  thou, 

My  brother,  take  this  galleon  in  thy  charge; 

For,  as  I  see,  she  holdeth  all  the  stores 

Which  Doughty  failed  to  find.     She  shall  return 

With  us  to  that  New  World  from  which  she  came. 

But  now  let  these  our  prisoners  all  embark 

In  yonder  pinnace;  let  them  all  go  free. 

I  care  not  to  be  cumbered  on  my  way 

Through  dead  Magellan's  unattempted  dream 

With  chains  and  prisoners.     In  that  Golden  World 


DRAKE  289 

Which  means  much  more  to  me  than  I  can  speak, 

Much  more,  much  more  than  I  can  speak  or  breathe, 

Being,  behind  whatever  name  it  bears — 

Earthly  Paradise,  Island  of  the  Saints, 

Cathay,  or  Zipangu,  or  Hy  Brasil — 

The  eternal  symbol  of  my  soul's  desire, 

A  sacred  country  shining  on  the  sea, 

That  Vision  without  which,  the  wise  king  said, 

A  people  perishes ;  in  that  place  of  hope, 

That  Tirn'an  Og,  that  land  of  lasting  youth, 

Where  whosoever  sails  with  me  shall  drink 

Fountains  of  immortality  and  dwell 

Beyond  the  fear  of  death  for  evermore, 

There  shall  we  see  the  dust  of  battle  dance 

Everywhere  in  the  sunbeam  of  God's  peace! 

Oh,  in  the  new  Atlantis  of  my  soul 

There  are  no  captives:  there  the  wind  blows  free; 

And,  as  in  sleep,  I  have  heard  the  marching  song 

Of  mighty  peoples  rising  in  the  West, 

Wonderful  cities  that  shall  set  their  foot 

Upon  the  throat  of  all  old  tyrannies; 

And  on  the  West  wind  I  have  heard  a  cry, 

The  shoreless  cry  of  the  prophetic  sea 

Heralding  through  that  golden  wilderness 

The  Soul  whose  path  our  task  is  to  make  straight, 

Freedom,  the  last  great  Saviour  of  mankind. 

I  know  not  what  IJcnow:  these  are  wild  words, 

Which,  as  the  sun  draws  out  earth's  morning  mists 

Over  dim  fields  where  careless  cattle  sleep, 

Some  visionary  Light,  unknown,  afar, 

Draws  from  my  darkling  soul.     Why  should  we  drag 

Thither  this  Old- World  weight  of  utter  gloom, 

Or  with  the  ballast  of  these  heavy  hearts 

Make  sail  in  sorrow  for  Pacific  Seas? 

Let  us  leave  chains  and  prisoners  to  Spain ; 

But  set  these  free  to  make  their  own  way  home!" 

So  said  he,  groping  blindly  towards  the  truth, 

And  heavy  with  the  treason  of  his  friend. 

His  face  was  like  a  king's  face  as  he  spake, 

For  sorrows  that  strike  deep  reveal  the  deep; 

And  through  the  gateways  of  a  ragged  wound 

19 


290  DRAKE 

Sometimes  a  god  will  drive  his  chariot  wheels 
From  some  deep  heaven  within  the  hearts  of  men. 
Nevertheless,  the  immediate  seamen  there 
Knowing  how  great  a  ransom  they  might  ask 
For  some  among  their  prisoners;  men  of  wealth 
And  high  degree,  scarce  liked  to  free  them  thus; 
And  only  saw  in  Drake's  conflicting  moods 
The  moment's  whim.     "For  little  will  he  care," 
They  muttered,  "when  we  reach  those  fabled  shores, 
Whether  his  cannon  break  their  golden  peace." 
Yet  to  his  face  they  murmured  not  at  all; 
Because  his  eyes  compelled  them  like  a  law. 
So  there  they  freed  the  prisoners  and  set  sail 
Across  the  earth-shaking  shoulders  of  the  broad 
Atlantic,  and  the  great  grey  slumbrous  waves 
Triumphantly  swelled  up  to  meet  the  keels. 


BOOK  III 

Now  in  the  cabin  of  the  Golden  Hynde 

At  dusk,  Drake  sent  for  Doughty.     From  one  wall 

The  picture  of  his  love  looked  down  on  him ; 

And  on  the  table  lay  the  magic  chart, 

Drawn  on  a  buffalo  horn,  all  small  peaked  isles, 

Dwarf  promontories,  tiny  twisted  creeks, 

And  fairy  harbours  under  elfin  hilts, 

With  marvellous  inscriptions  lined  in  red, — 

As  Here  is  Gold,  or  Many  Rubies  Here, 

Or  Ware  Witch-crafte,  or  Here  is  Cannibals. 

For  in  his  great  simplicity  the  man 

Delighted  in  it,  with  the  adventurous  heart 

Of  boyhood  poring  o'er  some  well-thumbed  tale 

On  blue  Twelfth  Night  beside  the  crimson  fire; 

And  o'er  him,  like  a  vision  of  a  boy 

In  his  first  knighthood  when,  upon  some  hill 

Washed  by  the  silver  fringes  of  the  sea, 

Amidst  the  purple  heather  he  lies  and  reads 

Of  Arthur  and  Avilion,  like  a  star 

His  love's  pure  face  looked  down.     There  Doughty  came, 


DRAKE  291 

Half  fearful,  half  defiant,  with  a  crowd 

Of  jostling  half-excuses  on  fyis  lips, 

And  one  dark  swarm  of  adders  in  his  heart. 

For  now  what  light  of  chivalry  remained 

In  Doughty's  mind  was  thickening  with  a  plot, 

Subtler  and  deadlier  than  the  serpent's  first 

Attempt  on  our  first  sire  in  Eden  bower. 

Drake,  with  a  countenance  open  as  the  sun, 

Received  him,  saying:  "Forgive  me,  friend,  for  I 

Was  hasty  with  thee.     I  well  nigh  forgot 

Those  large  and  liberal  nights  we  two  have  passed 

In  this  old  cabin,  telling  all  our  dreams 

And  hopes,  in  friendship,  o'er  and  o'er  again. 

But  Vicary,  thy  friend  hath  talked  with  me, 

And  now — I  understand.     Thou  shalt  no  more 

Be  vexed  with  a  divided  mastership. 

Indeed,  I  trust  thee,  Doughty.     Wilt  thou  not 

Be  friends  with  me?     For  now  in  ample  proof 

Thou  shalt  take  charge  of  this  my  Golden  Hynde 

In  all  things,  save  of  seamanship,  which  rests" 

With  the  ship's  master  under  my  command. 

But  I  myself  will  sail  upon  the  prize." 

And  with  the  word  he  gathered  up  the  chart, 

Took  down  his  lady's  picture  with  a  smile, 

Gripped  Doughty's  hand  and  left  him,  staring,  sheer 

Bewildered  with  that  magnanimity 

Of  faith,  throughout  all  shadows,  in  some  light 

Unseen  behind  the  shadows.     Thus  did  Drake 

Give  up  his  own  fair  cabin  which  he  loved; 

Being,  it  seemed,  a  little  travelling  home, 

Fragrant  with  memories, — gave  it,  as  he  thought, 

In  recompense  to  one  whom  he  had  wronged. 

For  even  as  his  mind  must  ever  yearn 

To  shores  beyond  the  sunset,  even  so 

He  yearned  through  all  dark  shadows  to  his  friend, 

And  with  his  greater  nature  striving  still 

To  comprehend  the  lesser,  as  the  sky 

Embraces  our  low  earth,  he  would  adduce 

Justifications,  thus:  "These  men  of  law 

Are  trained  to  plead  for  any  and  every  cause, 

To  feign  an  indignation,  or  to  prove 


292  DRAKE 

The  worse  is  better  and  that  black  is  white! 
Small  wonder  that  their  passion  goes  astray: 
There  is  one  prayer,  one  prayer  for  all  of  us — 

Enter  not  into  judgment  with  Thy  servant!" 

Yet  as  his  boat  pulled  tow'rd  the  Spanish  prize 
Leaving  the  Golden  Hynde,  far  off  he  heard 
A  voice  that  chilled  him,  as  the  voice  of  Fate 
Crying  like  some  old  Bellman  through  the  world. 


SONG 

Yes;  oh,  yes;  if  any  seek 

Laughter  flown  or  lost  delight, 
Glancing  eye  or  rosy  cheek, 

Love  shall  claim  his  own  to-night! 
Say,  hath  any  lost  a  friend? 
Yes;  oh,  yes! 
Let  his  distress 
In  my  ditty  find  its  end. 

Yes;  oh,  yes;  here  all  is  found! 

Kingly  palaces  await 
Each  its  rightful  owner,  crowned 

King  and  consecrate, 
Under  the  wet  and  wintry  ground! 
Yes;  oh,  yes! 
There  sure  redress 
Lies  where  all  is  lost  and  found. 

And  Doughty,  though  Drake's  deed  of  kindness  flashed 
A  moment's  kind  contrition  through  his  heart, 
Immediately,  with  all  his  lawyer's  wit 
True  to  the  cause  that  hired  him,  laughed  it  bjr, 
And  straight  began  to  weave  the  treacherous  web 
Of  soft  intrigue  wherein  he  meant  to  snare 
The  passions  of  his  comrades.     Night  and  day, 
As  that  small  fleet  drove  onward  o'er  the  deep, 
Cleaving  the  sunset  with  their  bright  black  prows 
Or  hunted  by  the  red  pursuing  Dawn, 


DRAKE  293 

He  stirred  between  the  high-born  gentlemen 

(Whose  white  and  jewelled  hands,  gallant  in  fight, 

And  hearts  remembering  Crecy  and  Poictiers, 

Were  of  scant  use  in  common  seamanship), 

Between  these  and  the  men  whose  rough  tarred  arms 

Were  good  at  equal  need  in  storm  or  war 

Yet  took  a  poorer  portion  of  the  prize, 

He  stirred  a  subtle  jealousy  and  fanned 

A  fire  that  swiftly  grew  almost  to  hate. 

For  when  the  seamen  must  take  precedence 

Of  loiterers  on  the  deck — through  half  a  word, 

Small,  with  intense  device,  like  some  fierce  lens, 

He  magnified  their  rude  and  blustering  mode; 

Or  urged  some  scented  fop,  whose  idle  brain 

Busied  itself  with  momentary  whims, 

To  bid  the  master  alter  here  a  sail, 

Or  there  a  rope;  and,  if  the  man  refused, 

Doughty,  at  night,  across  the  wine-cups,  raved 

Against  the  rising  insolence  of  the  mob; 

And  hinted  Drake  himself  was  half  to  blame, 

In  words  that  seemed  to  say,  "I  am  his  friend, 

Or  I  should  bid  you  think  him  all  to  blame." 

So  fierce  indeed  the  strife  became  that  once, 

While  Chester,  Doughty's  catspaw,  played  with  fire, 

The  grim  ship-master  growled  between  his  teeth, 

"Remember,  sir,  remember,  ere  too  late, 

Magellan's  mutinous  vice-admiral's  end." 

And  Doughty  heard,  and  with  a  boisterous  laugh 

Slapped  the  old  sea-dog  on  the  back  and  said, 

"The  gallows  are  for  dogs,  not  gentlemen!" 

Meanwhile  his  brother,  sly  John  Doughty,  sought 

To  fan  the  seamen's  fear  of  the  unknown  world 

With  whispers  and  conjectures;  and,  at  night, 

He  brought  old  books  of  Greek  and  Hebrew  down 

Into  the  foc'sle,  claiming  by  their  aid 

A  knowledge  of  Black  Art,  and  power  to  tell 

The  future,  which  he  dreadfully  displayed 

There  in  the  flickering  light  of  the  oily  lamp, 

Bending  above  their  huge  and  swarthy  palms 

And  tracing  them  to  many  a  grisly  doom. 


294  DRAKE 

So  many  a  night  and  day  westward  they  plunged. 

The  half-moon  ripened  to  its  mellow  round, 

Dwindled  again  and  ripened  yet  again. 

And  there  was  nought  around  them  but  the  grey 

Ruin  and  roar  of  huge  Atlantic  seas. 

And  only  like  a  memory  of  the  world 

They  left  behind  them  rose  the  same  great  sun, 

And  daily  rolled  his  chariot  through  their  sky, 

Whereof  the  skilled  musicians  made  a  song. 


SONG 

The  same  sun  is  o'er  us, 

The  same  Love  shall  find  us, 
The  same  and  none  other, 
Wherever  we  bo; 
With  the  same  goal  before  us, 
The  same  home  behind  us, 
England,  our  mother, 
Ringed  round  with  the  sea. 

When  the  breakers  charged  thundering 
In  thousands  all  round  us 
With  a  lightning  of  lances 
Uphurtled  on  high, 
When  the  stout  ships  were  sundering 
A  rapture  hath  crowned  us, 
Like  the  wild  light  that  dances 
On  the  crests  that  flash  by. 

When  the  waters  lay  breathless 
Gazing  at  Hesper 
Guarding  the  golden 
Fruit  of  the  tree, 
Heard  we  the  deathless 
Wonderful  whisper 
Wafting  the  olden 
Dream  of  the  sea. 


DRAKE  295 

No  land  in  the  ring  of  it 
Now,  all  around  us 
Only  the  splendid 
Resurging  unknown ! 
How  should  we  sing  of  it? — 
This  that  hath  found  us 
By  the  great  sun  attended 
In  splendour,  alone. 

Ah !  the  broad  miles  of  it, 
White  with  the  onset 
Of  waves  without  number 
Warring  for  glee. 
Ahi  the  soft  smiles  of  it 
Down  to  the  sunset, 
Holy  for  slumber, 
The  peace  of  the  sea. 

The  wave's  heart,  exalted, 
Leaps  forward  to  meet  us, 
The  sun  on  the  sea-wave 
Lies  white  as  the  moon : 
The  soft  sapphire-vaulted 

Deep  heaven  smiles  to  greet  us. 
Free  sons  of  the  free-wave 
All  singing  one  tune. 

The  same  sun  is  o'er  us, 
The  same  Love  shall  find  us, 
The  same  and  none  other, 
Wherever  we  be; 
With  the  same  goal  before  us, 
The  same  home  behind  us, 
England,  our  mother, 
Queen  of  the  sea. 

At  last  a  faint-flushed  April  Dawn  arose 

With  milk-white  arms  up-binding  golden  clouds 

Of  fragrant  hair  behind  her  lovely  head ; 

And  lo,  before  the  bright  black  plunging  prows 

The  whole  sea  suddenly  shattered  into  shoals 


296  DRAKE 

Of  rolling  porpoises.     Everywhere  they  tore 

The  glittering  water.     Like  a  moving  crowd 

Of  black  bright  rocks  washed  smooth  by  foaming  tides, 

They  thrilled  the  unconscious  fancy  of  the  crews 

With  subtle,  wild,  and  living  hints  of  land. 

And  soon  Columbus'  happy  signals  came, 

The  signs  that  saved  him  when  his  mutineers 

Despaired  at  last  and  clamoured  to  return, — 

And  there,  with  awe  triumphant  in  their  eyes, 

They  saw,  lazily  tossing  on  the  tide, 

A  drift  of  seaweed  and  a  berried  branch, 

Which  silenced  them  as  if  they  had  seen  a  Hand 

Writing  with  fiery  letters  on  the  deep. 

Then  a  black  cormorant,  vulture  of  the  sea, 

With  neck  outstretched  and  one  long  ominous  honk, 

Went  hurtling  past  them  to  its  unknown  bourne. 

A  mighty  white-winged  albatross  came  next; 

Then  flight  on  flight  of  clamorous  clanging  gulls; 

And  last,  a  wild  and  sudden  shout  of  "Land!" 

Echoed  from  crew  to  crew  across  the  waves. 

Then,  dumb  upon  the  rigging  as  they  hung 

Staring  at  it,  a  menace  chilled  their  blood. 

For  like  II  Gran  Nemico  of  Dante,  dark, 

Ay,  coloured  like  a  thunder-cloud,  from  North 

To  South,  in  front,  there  slowly  rose  to  sight 

A  country  like  a  dragon  fast  asleep 

Along  the  West,  with  wrinkled,  purple  wings 

Ending  in  ragged  forests  o'er  its  spine; 

And  with  great  craggy  claws  out-thrust,  that  turned 

(As  the  dim  distances  dissolved  their  veils) 

To  promontories  bounding  a  huge  bay. 

There  o'er  the  hushed  and  ever  shallower  tide 

The  staring  ships  drew  nigh  and  thought,  "Is  this 

The  Dragon  of  our  Golden  Apple  Tree, 

The  guardian  of  the  fruit  of  our  desire 

Which  grows  in  gardens  of  the  Hesperides 

Where  those  three  sisters  weave  a  white-armed  dance 

Around  it  everlastingly,  and  sing 

Strange  songs  in  a  strange  tongue  that  still  convey 

Warning  to  heedful  souls?"     Nearer  they  drew, 

And  now,  indeed,  from  out  a  soft  blue-gre;, 


DRAKE  297 

Mingling  of  colours  on  that  coast's  deep  flank 
There  crept  a  garden  of  enchantment,  height 
O'er  height,  a  garden  sloping  from  the  hills, 
Wooded  as  with  Aladdin's  trees  that  bore 
All-coloured  clustering  gems  instead  of  fruit; 
Now  vaster  as  it  grew  upon  their  eyes, 
And  like  some  Roman  amphitheatre 
Cirque  above  mighty  cirque  all  round  the  bay, 
With  jewels  and  flowers  ablaze  on  women's  breasts 
Innumerably  confounded  and  confused; 
While  lovely  faces  flushed  with  lust  of  blood, 
Rank  above  rank  upon  their  tawny  thrones 
In  soft  barbaric  splendour  lapped,  and  lulled 
By  the  low  thunderings  of  a  thousand  lions, 
Luxuriously  smiled  as  they  bent  down 
Over  the  scarlet-splashed  and  steaming  sands 
To  watch  the  white-limbed  gladiators  die. 

Such  fears  and  dreams  for  Francis  Drake,  at  least, 
Rose  and  dissolved  in  his  nigh  fevered  brain 
As  they  drew  near  that  equatorial  shore ; 
For  rumours  had  been  borne  to  him;  and  now 
He  knew  not  whether  to  impute  the  wrong 
To  his  untrustful  mind  or  to  believe 
Doughty  a  traitorous  liar;  yet  there  seemed 
Proof  and  to  spare.    A  thousand  shadows  rose 
To  mock  him  with  their  veiled  indicative  hands. 
And  each  alone  he  laid  and  exorcised 
But  for  each  doubt  he  banished,  one  returned 
From  darker  depths  to  mock  him  o'er  again. 

So,  in  that  bay,  the  little  fleet  sank  sail 

And  anchored;  and  the  wild  reality 

Behind  those  dreams  towered  round  them  on  the  hills, 

Or  so  it  seemed.     And  Drake  bade  lower  a  boat, 

And  went  ashore  with  sixteen  men  to  seek 

Water ;  and,  as  they  neared  the  embowered  beach, 

Over  the  green  translucent  tide  there  came, 

A  hundred  yards  from  land,  a  drowsy  sound 

Immeasurably  repeated  and  prolonged, 


298  DRAKE 

As  of  innumerable  elfin  drums 
Dreamily  mustering  in  the  tropic  bloom. 
This  from  without  they  heard,  across  the  waves; 
But  when  they  glided  into  a  flowery  creek 
Under  the  sharp  black  shadows  of  the  trees — 
Jaca  and  Mango  and  Palm  and  red  festoons 
Of  garlanded  Liana  wreaths — it  ebbed 
Into  the  murmur  of  the  mighty  fronds, 
Prodigious  leaves  whose  veinings  bore  the  fresh 
Impression  of  the  finger-prints  of  God. 
There  humming-birds,  like  flakes  of  purple  fire 
Upon  some  passing  seraph's  plumage,  beat 
And  quivered  in  blinding  blots  of  golden  light 
Between  the  embattled  cactus  and  cardoon; 
While  one  huge  whisper  of  primeval  awe 
Seemed  to  await  the  cool  green  eventide 
When  God  should  walk  His  Garden  as  of  old. 

Now  as  the  boats  were  plying  to  and  fro 

Between  the  ships  and  that  enchanted  shore, 

Drake  bade  his  comrades  tarry  a  little  and  went 

Apart,  alone,  into  the  trackless  woods. 

Tormented  with  his  thoughts,  he  saw  all  round 

Once  more  the  battling  image  of  his  mind, 

Where  there  was  nought  of  man,  only  the  vast 

Unending  silent  struggle  of  Titan  trees, 

Large  internecine  twistings  of  the  world, 

The  hushed  death-grapple  and  the  still  intense 

Locked  anguish  of  Laocoons  that  gripped 

Death  by  the  throat  for  thrice  three  hundred  years. 

Once,  like  a  subtle  mockery  overhead, 

Some  black-armed  chattering  ape  swung  swiftly  by, 

But  he  strode  onward,  thinking — "Was  it  false, 

False  all  that  kind  outreaching  of  the  hands? 

False?     Was  there  nothing  certain,  nothing  sure 

In  those  divinest  aisles  and  towers  of  Time 

Wherein  we  took  sweet  counsel?     Is  there  nought 

Sure  but  the  solid  dust  beneath  our  feet? 

Must  all  those  lovelier  fabrics  of  the  soul, 

Being  so  divinely  bright  and  delicate, 

Waver  and  shine  no  longer  than  some  poor 


DRAKE  299 

Prismatic  aery  bubble?     Ajr,  they  burst, 
And  all  their  glory  shrinks  into  one  tear 
No  bitterer  than  some  idle  love-lorn  maid 
Sheds  for  her  dead  canary.     God,  it  hurts. 
This,  this  hurts  most,  to  think  how  we  must  miss 
What  might  have  been,  for  nothing  but  a  breath, 
A  babbling  of  the  tongue,  an  argument, 
Or  such  a  poor  contention  as  involves 
The  thrones  and  dominations  of  this  earth, — 
How  many  of  us,  like  seed  on  barren  ground, 
Must  miss  the  flower  and  harvest  of  their  prayers, 
The  living  light  of  friendship  and  the  grasp 
Which  for  its  very  meaning  once  implied 
Eternities  of  utterance  and  the  life 
Immortal  of  two  souls  beyond  the  grave?" 

Now,  wandering  upward  ever,  he  reached  and  clomb 

The  slope  side  of  a  fern-fringed  precipice, 

And,  at  the  summit,  found  an  opening  glade, 

Whence,  looking  o'er  the  forest,  he  beheld 

The  sea;  and,  in  the  land-locked  bay  below, 

Far,  far  below,  his  elfin-tiny  ships, 

All  six  at  anchor  on  the  crawling  tide! 

Then  onward,  upward,  through  the  woods  once  more 

He  plunged  with  bursting  heart  and  burning  brow; 

And,  once  again,  like  madness,  the  black  shapes 

Of  doubt  swung  through  his  brain  and  chattered  and 

laughed, 
Till  he  upstretched  his  arms  in  agony 
And  cursed  the  name  of  Doughty,  cursed  the  day 
They  met,  cursed  his  false  face  and  courtier  smiles, 
"For  oh,"  he  cried,  "how  easy  a  thing  it  were 
For  truth  to  wear  the  garb  of  truth !     This  proves 
His  treachery!  "     And  there,  at  once,  his  thoughts 
Tore  him  another  way,  as  thus,  "And  yet 
If  he  were  false,  is  he  not  subtle  enough 
To  hide  it?     Why,  this  proves  his  innocence — 
This  very  courtly  carelessness  which  I, 
Black-hearted  evil-thinker  as  I  am, 
In  my  own  clumsier  spirit  so  misjudge! 
These  children  of  the  court  are  butterflies 


300  DRAKE 

Fluttering  hither  and  thither,  and  I — poor  fool — 
Would  fix  them  to  a  stem  and  call  them  flowers, 
Kay,  bid  them  grasp  the  ground  like  towering  oaks 
And  shadow  all  the  zenith;"  and  yet  again 
The  madness  of  distrustful  friendship  gleamed 
From  his  fierce  eyes,  "Oh  villain,  damned  villain, 
God's  murrain  on  his  heart !  I  know  full  well 
He  hides  what  he  can  hide !  He  wears  no  fault 
Upon  the  gloss  and  frippery  of  his  breast ! 
It  is  not  that!     It  is  the  hidden  things, 
Unseizable,  the  things  I  do  not  know, 
Ay,  it  is  these,  these,  these  and  these  alone 
That  I  mistrust." 

And,  as  he  walked,  the  skies 
Grew  full  of  threats,  and  now  enormous  clouds 
Hose  mammoth-like  above  the  ensanguined  deep, 
Trampling  the  daylight  out;  and,  with  its  death 
Dyed  purple,  rushed  along  as  if  they  meant 
To  obliterate  the  world.     He  took  no  heed. 
Though  that  strange  blackness  brimmed  the  branching  aisles 
With  horror,  he  strode  on  till  in  the  gloom, 
Just  as  his  winding  way  came  out  once  more 
Over  a  precipice  that  o'erlooked  the  bay, 
There,  as  he  went,  not  gazing  down,  but  up, 
He  saw  what  seemed  a  ponderous  granite  cliff, 
A  huge  ribbed  shell  upon  a  lonely  shore 
Left  by  forgotten  mountains  when  they  sank 
Back  to  earth's  breast  like  billows  on  a  sea. 
A  tall  and  whispering  crowd  of  tree-ferns  waved 
Mysterious  fringes  round  it.     In  their  midst 
He  flung  himself  at  its  broad  base,  with  one 
Sharp  shivering  cry  of  pain,  "Show  me  Thy  ways, 
O  God,  teach  me  Thy  paths!    I  am  in  the  dark! 
Tighten  my  darkness ! " 

Almost  as  he  spoke 
There  swept  across  the  forest,  far  and  wide, 
Gathering  power  and  volume  as  it  came, 
A  sound  as  of  a  rushing  mighty  wind : 
And,  overhead,  like  great  black  gouts  of  blood 
Wrung  from  the  awful  forehead  of  the  Night 
The  first  drops  fell  and  ceased.     Then,  suddenly, 


DRAKE  301 

Out  of  the  darkness,  earth  with  all  her  seas, 

Her  little  ships  at  anchor  in  the  bay 

(Five  ebony  ships  upon  a  sheet  of  silver, 

Drake  saw  not  that,  indeed,  Drake  saw  not  that!), 

Her  woods,  her  boughs,  her  leaves,  her  tiniest  twigs. 

Leapt  like  a  hunted  stag  through  one  immense 

Lightning  of  revelation  into  the  murk 

Of  Erebus :  then  heaven  o'er  rending  heaven 

Shattered  and  crashed  down  ruin  over  the  world. 

But,  in  that  deeper  darkness,  Francis  Drake 

Stood  upright  now,  and  with  blind  outstretched  arms 

Groped  at  that  strange  forgotten  cliff  and  shell 

Of  n^stery;  for  in  that  flash  of  light 

iEons  had  passed;  and  now  the  Thing  in  front 

Made  his  blood  freeze  with  memories  that  lay 

Behind  his  Memory.     In  the  gloom  he  groped, 

And  with  dark  hands  that  knew  not  what  they  knew, 

As  one  that  shelters  in  the  night,  unknowing, 

Beneath  a  stranded  shipwreck,  with  a  cry 

He  touched  the  enormous  rain-washed  belted  ribs 

And  bones  like  battlements  of  some  Mastodon 

Embedded  there  until  the  trump  of  doom. 

After  long  years,  long  centuries,  perchance, 

Triumphantly  some  other  pioneer 

Would  stand  where  Drake  now  stood  and  read  the  tale 

Of  ages  where  he  only  felt  the  cold 

Touch  in  the  dark  of  some  huge  mystery ; 

Yet  Drake  might  still  be  nearer  to  the  light 

Who  now  was  whispering  from  his  great  deep  heart, 

"Show  me  Thy  ways,  0  God,  teach  me  Thy  paths!" 

And  there  by  some  strange  instinct,  oh,  he  felt 

God's  answer  there,  as  if  he  grasped  a  hand 

Across  a  gulf  of  twice  ten  thousand  years; 

And  he  regained  his  lost  magnificence 

Of  faith  in  that  great  Harmony  which  resolves 

Our  discords,  faith  through  all  the  ruthless  laws 

Of  nature  in  their  lovely  pitilessness, 

Faith  in  that  Love  which  outwardly  must  wear, 

Through  all  the  sorrows  of  eternal  change, 

The  splendour  of  the  indifference  of  God. 


302  DRAKE 

All  round  him  through  the  heavy  purple  gloom 

Sloped  the  soft  rush  of  silver-arrowed  rain, 

Loosening  the  skies'  hard  anguish  as  with  tears. 

Once  more  he  felt  his  unity  with  all 

The  vast  composure  of  the  universe, 

And  drank  deep  at  the  fountains  of  that  peace 

Which  comprehends  the  tumult  of  our  days. 

But  with  that  peace  the  power  to  act  returned; 

And,  with  his  back  against  the  Mastodon, 

He  stared  through  the  great  darkness  tow'rds  the  sea. 

The  rain  ceased  for  a  moment:  only  the  slow 

Drip  of  the  dim  droop-feathered  palms  all  round 

Deepened  the  hush. 

Then,  out  of  the  gloom  once  more 
The  whole  earth  leapt  to  sight  with  all  her  woods, 
Her  boughs,  her  leaves,  her  tiniest  twigs  distinct 
For  one  wild  moment;  but  Drake  only  saw 
The  white  flash  of  her  seas  and  there,  oh  there 
That  land-locked  bay  with  those  five  elfin  ships, 
Five  elfin  ebony  ships  upon  a  sheet 
Of  wrinkled  silver !     Then,  as  the  thunder  followed, 
One  thought  burst  through  his  brain — 

One  ship  was  gone! 
Over  the  grim  precipitous  edge  he  hung, 
An  eagle  waiting  for  the  lightning  now 
To  swoop  upon  his  prey.     One  iron  hand 
Gripped  a  rough  tree-root  like  a  bunch  of  snakes; 
And,  as  the  rain  rushed  round  him,  far  away 
He  saw  to  northward  yet  another  flash, 
A  scribble  of  God's  finger  in  the  sky 
Over  a  waste  of  white  stampeding  waves. 
His  eye  flashed  like  a  falchion  as  he  saw  it, 
And  from  his  lips  there  burst  the  sea-king's  laugh; 
For  there,  with  a  fierce  joy  he  knew,  he  knew 
Doughty,  at  last — an  open  mutineer! 
An  open  foe  to  fight !     Ay,  there  she  went, — 
His  Golden  Hynde,  his  little  Golden  Hynde 
A  wild  deserter  scudding  to  the  North. 
And,  almost  ere  the  lightning,  Drake  had  gone 
Crashing  down  the  face  of  the  precipice, 
By  a  narrow  water-gully,  and  through  the  huge 


DRAKE  303 

Forest  he  tore  the  straight  and  perilous  way 

Down  to  the  shore;  while,  three  miles  to  the  North, 

Upon  the  wet  poop  of  the  Golden  Hynde 

Doughty  stood  smiling.     Scarce  would  he  have  smiled 

Knowing  that  Drake  had  seen  him  from  that  tower 

Amidst  the  thunders-;  but,  indeed,  he  thought 

He  had  escaped  unseen  amidst  the  storm. 

Many  a  day  he  had  worked  upon  the  crew, 

Fanning  their  fears  and  doubts  until  he  won 

The  more  part  to  his  side.     And  when  they  reached 

That  coast,  he  showed  them  how  Drake  meant  to  sail 

Southward,  into  that  unknown  Void ;  but  he 

Would  have  them  suddenly  slip  by  stealth  away 

Northward  to  Darien,  showing  them  what  a  life 

Of  roystering  glory  waited  for  them  there, 

If,  laying  aside  this  empty  quest,  they  joined 

The  merry  feasters  round  those  island  fires 

Which  over   many  a  dark-blue  creek  illumed 

Buccaneer  camps  in  scarlet  logwood  groves, 

Fringing  the  Guf  of  Mexico,  till  dawn 

Summoned  the  Black  Flags  out  to  sweep  the  sea. 

But  when  Drake  reached  the  flower-embowered  boat 
And  found  the  men  awaiting  his  return 
There,  in  a  sheltering  grove  of  bread-fruit  trees 
Beneath  great  eaves  of  leafage  that  obscured 
Their  sight,  but  kept  the  storm  out,  as  they  tossed 
Pieces  of  eight  or  rattled  the  bone  dice, 
His  voice  went  through  them  like  a  thunderbolt, 
For  none  of  them  had  seen  the  Golden  Hynde 
Steal  from  the  bay;  and  now  the  billows  burst 
Like  cannon  down  the  coast;  and  they  had  thought 
Their  boat  could  not  be  launched  until  the  storm 
Abated.     Under  Drake's  compelling  eyes, 
Nevertheless,  they  poled  her  down  the  creek 
Without  one  word,  waiting  their  chance.     Then  all 
Together  with  their  brandished  oars  they  thrust, 
And  on  the  fierce  white  out-draught  of  a  wave 
They  shot  up,  up  and  over  the  toppling  crest 
Of  the  next,  and  plunged  crashing  into  the  trough 
Behind  it:  then  they  settled  at  their  thwarts, 


304  DRAKE 

And  the  fierce  water  boiled  before  their  blades 
As,  with  Drake's  iron  hand  upon  the  helm, 
They  soared  and  crashed  across  the  rolling  seas. 


Not  for  the  Spanish  prize  did  Drake  now  steer, 
But  for  that  little  ship  the  Mary  gold, 
Swiftest  of  sail,  next  to  the  Golden  Hynde, 
And,  in  the  hands  of  Francis  Drake,  indeed 
Swiftest  of  all;  and  ere  the  seamen  knew 
What  power,  as  of  a  wind,  bore  them  along, 
Anchor  was  up,  their  hands  were  on  the  sheets, 
The  sails  were  broken  out,  the  Mary  gold 
Was  flying  like  a  storm-cloud  to  the  North, 
And  on  her  poop  an  iron  statue  still 
As  death  stood  Francis  Drake. 

One  hour  they  rushed 
Northward,  with  green  seas  washing  o'er  the  deck 
And  buffeted  with  splendour;  then  they  saw 
The  Golden  Hynde  like  some  wing-broken  gull 
With  torn  mismanaged  plumes  beating  the  air 
In  peril  of  utter  shipwreck;  saw  her  fly 
Half-mast,  a  feeble  signal  of  distress 
Despite  all  Doughty's  curses;  for  her  crew 
Wild  with  divisions  torn  amongst  themselves 
Most  gladly  now  surrendered  in  their  hearts, 
As  close  alongside  grandly  onward  swept 
The  Marygold,  with  canvas  trim  and  taut 
Magnificently  drawing  the  full  wind, 
Her  gunners  waiting  at  their  loaded  guns 
Bare-armed  and  silent;  and  that  iron  soul 
Alone,  upon  her  silent  quarter-deck. 
There  they  hauled  up  into  the  wind  and  lay 
Rocking,  while  Drake,  alone,  without  a  guard, 
Boarding  the  runaway,  dismissed  his  boat 
Back  to  the  Marygold.     Then  his  voice  out-rang 
Trumpet-like  o'er  the  trembling  mutineers, 
And  clearly,  as  if  they  were  but  busied  still 
About  the  day's  routine.     They  hid  their  shame, 
As  men  that  would  propitiate  a  god, 
By  flying  to  fulfil  his  lightest  word; 


DRAKE  305 

And  ere  they  knew  what  power,  as  of  a  wind, 
Impelled  them — that  half  wreck  was  trim  and  taut, 
Her  sails  all  drawing  and  her  bows  afoam; 
And,  creeping  past  the  Mary  gold  once  more, 
She  led  their  Southward  way !    And  not  till  then 
Did  Drake  vouchsafe  one  word  to  the  white  face 
Of  Doughty,  as  he  furtively  slunk  nigh 
With  some  new  lie  upon  his  fear-parched  lips 
Thirsting  for  utterance  in  his  crackling  laugh 
Of  deprecation;  and  with  one  ruffling  puff 
Of  pigeon  courage  in  his  blinded  soul — 
"I  am  no  sea-dog — even  Francis  Drake 
Would  scarce  misuse  a  gentleman." 

Then  Drake  turned 
And  summoned  four  swart  seamen  out  by  name. 
His  words  went  like  a  cold  wind  through  their  flesh 
As  with  a  passionless  voice  he  slowly  said, 
"Take  ye  this  fellow:  bind  him  to  the  mast 
Until  what  time  I  shall  decide  his  fate." 
And  Doughty  gasped  as  at  the  world's  blank  end, — 
"Nay,  Francis,"  cried  he,  "wilt  thou  thus  misuse. 
A  gentleman?"     But  as  the  seamen  gripped 
His  arms  he  struggled  vainly  and  furiously 
To  throw  them  off;  and  in  his  impotence 
Let  slip  the  whole  of  his  treacherous  cause  and  hope 
In  empty  wrath, — "Fore  God,"  he  foamed  and  snarled, 
"Ye  shall  all  smart  for  this  when  we  return! 
Unhand  me,  dogs !     I  have  Lord  Burleigh's  power 
Behind  me.     There  is  nothing  I  have  done 
Without  his  warrant !     Ye  shall  smart  for  this ! 
Unhand  me,  I  say,  unhand  me!" 

And  in  one  flash 
Drake  saw  the  truth,  and  Doughty  saw  his  eyes 
Lighten  upon  him;  and  his  false  heart  quailed 
Once  more;  and  he  suddenly  suffered  himself 
Quietly,  strangely,  to  be  led  away 
And  bound  without  a  murmur  to  the  mast. 
And  strangely  Drake  remembered,  as  those  words, 
"Ye  shall  all  smart  for  this  when  we  return," 
Yelped  at  his  faith,  how  while  the  Dover  cliffs 
Faded  from  sight  he  leaned  to  his  new  friend 
20 


30G  DRAKE 

Doughty  and  said:  "I  blame  them  not  who  stay! 
I  blame  them  not  at  all  who  cling  to  home, 
For  many  of  us,  indeed,  shall  not  return, 
Nor  ever  know  that  sweetness  any  more." 

And  when  they  had  reached  their  anchorage  anews 

Drake,  having  now  resolved  to  bring  his  fleet 

Beneath  a  more  compact  control,  at  once 

Took  all  the  men  and  the  chief  guns  and  stores 

From  out  the  Spanish  prize;  and  sent  Tom  Moone 

To  set  the  hulk  afire.     Also  he  bade 

Unbind  the  traitor  and  ordered  him  aboard 

The  pinnace  Christopher.     John  Doughty,  too, 

He  ordered  thither,  into  the  grim  charge 

Of  old  Tom  Moone,  thinking  it  best  to  keep 

The  poisonous  leaven  carefully  apart 

Until  they  had  won  well  Southward,  to  a  place 

Where,  finally  committed  to  their  quest, 

They  might  arraign  the  traitor  without  fear 

Or  favour,  and  acquit  him  or  condemn. 

But  those  two  brothers,  doubting  as  the  false 

Are  damned  to  doubt,  saw  murder  in  his  eyes, 

And  thought  "He  means  to  sink  the  smack  one  night.' 

And  they  refused  to  go,  till  Drake  abruptly 

Ordered  them  straightway  to  be  slung  on  board 

With  ropes. 

The  daylight  waned;  but  ere  the  sun 
Sank,  the  five  ships  were  plunging  to  the  South; 
For  Drake  would  halt  no  longer,  least  the  crews 
Also  should  halt  betwixt  two  purposes. 
He  took  the  tide  of  fortune  at  the  flood; 
And  onward  through  the  now  subsiding  storm, 
Ere  they  could  think  what  power  as  of  a  wind 
Impelled  them,  he  had  swept  them  on  their  way. 
Far,  far  into  the  night  they  saw  the  blaze 
That  leapt  in  crimson  o'er  the  abandoned  hulk 
Behind  them,  like  a  mighty  hecatomb 
Marking  the  path  of  some  Titanic  will. 
Many  a  night  and  day  they  Southward  drove. 
Sometimes  at  midnight  round  them  all  the  sea 
Quivered  with  witches'  oils  and  water  snakes, 


DRAKE  307 

Green,  blue,  and  red,  with  lambent  tongues  of  fire. 

Mile  upon  mile  about  the  blurred  black  hulls 

A  cauldron  of  tempestuous  colour  coiled. 

On  every  mast  mysterious  meteors  burned, 

And  from  the  shores  a  bellowing  rose  and  fell 

As  of  great  bestial  gods  that  walked  all  night 

Through  some  wild  hell  unknown,  too  vast  for  men ; 

But  when  the  silver  and  crimson  of  the  dawn 

Broke  out,  they  saw  the  tropic  shores  anew, 

The  fair  white  foam,  and,  round  about  the  rocks, 

Weird  troops  of  tusked  sea-lions;  and  the  world 

Mixed  with  their  dreams  and  made  them  stranger  still. 

And,  once,  so  fierce  a  tempest  scattered  the  fleet 

That  even  the  hardiest  souls  began  to  think 

There  was  a  Jonah  with  them;  for  the  seas 

Rose  round  them  like  green  mountains,  peaked  and  rigged 

With  heights  of  Alpine  snow  amongst  the  clouds; 

And  many  a  league  to  Southward,  when  the  ships 

Gathered  again  amidst  the  sinking  waves 

Four  only  met.     The  ship  of  Thomas  Drake 

Was  missing;  and  some  thought  it  had  gone  clown 

With  all  hands  in  the  storm.     But  Francis  Drake 

Held  on  his  way,  learning  from  hour  to  hour 

To  merge  himself  in  immortality; 

Learning  the  secrets  of  those  pitiless  laws 

Which  dwarf  ail  mortal  grief,  all  human  pain, 

To  something  less  than  nothing  by  the  side 

Of  that  eternal  travail  dimly  guessed, 

Since  first  he  felt  in  the  miraculous  dark 

The  great  bones  of  the  Mastodon,  that  hulk 

Of  immemorial  death.     He  learned  to  judge 

The  passing  pageant  of  this  outward  world 

As  by  the  touch-stone  of  that  memory; 

Even  as  in  that  country  which  some  said 

Lay  now  not  far,  the  great  Tezcucan  king, 

Resting  his  jewelled  hand  upon  a  skull, 

And  on  a  smouldering  glory  of  jewels  throned 

There  in  his  temple  of  the  Unknown  God 

Over  the  host  of  Aztec  princes,  clad 

In  golden  hauberks  gleaming  under  soft 

Surcoats  of  greea  or  scarlet  feather-work, 


308  DRAKE 

Could  in  the  presence  of  a  mightier  power 

Than  life  or  death  give  up  his  guilty  sons, 

His  only  sons,  to  the  sacrificial  sword. 

And  hour  by  hour  the  soul  of  Francis  Drake, 

Unconscious  as  an  oak-tree  of  its  growth, 

Increased  in  strength  and  stature  as  he  drew 

Earth,  heaven,  and  hell  within  him,  more  and  more. 

For  as  the  dream  we  call  our  world,  with  all 

Its  hues  is  but  a  picture  in  the  brain, 

So  did  his  soul  enfold  the  universe 

With  gradual  sense  of  superhuman  power, 

While  every  visible  shape  within  the  vast 

Horizon  seemed  the  symbol  of  some  thought 

Waiting  for  utterance.     He  had  found  indeed 

God's  own  Nirvana,  not  of  empty  dream, 

But  of  intensest  life.     Nor  did  he  think 

Aught  of  all  this;  but,  as  the  rustic  deems 

The  colours  that  he  carries  in  his  brain 

Are  somehow  all  outside  him  while  he  peers 

Unaltered  through  two  windows  in  his  face, 

Drake  only  knew  that  as  the  four  ships  plunged 

Southward,  the  world  mysteriously  grew 

More  like  a  prophet's  vision,  hour  by  hour, 

Fraught  with  dark  omens  and  significances, 

A  world  of  hieroglyphs  and  sacred  signs 

Wherein  he  seemed  to  read  the  truth  that  lay 

Hid  from  the  Roman  augurs  when  of  old 

They  told  the  future  from  the  flight  of  birds. 

How  vivid  with  disaster  seemed  the  flight 

Of  those  blood-red  flamingoes  o'er  the  dim 

Blue  steaming  forest,  like  two  terrible  thoughts 

Flashing,  unapprehended,  through  his  brain ! 

And  now,  as  they  drove  Southward,  day  and  night, 
Through  storm  and  calm,  the  shores  that  fleeted  by 
Grew  wilder,  grander,  with  his  growing  soul, 
And  pregnant  with  the  approaching  mystery. 
And  now  along  the  Patagonian  coast 
They  cruised,  and  in  the  solemn  midnight  saw 
Wildernesses  of  shaggy  barren  marl, 
Petrified  seas  of  lava,  league  on  league, 


DRAKE  309 

Craters  and  bouldered  slopes  and  granite  cliffs 
With  ragged  rents,  grim  gorges,  deep  ravines, 
And  precipice  on  precipice  up -piled 
Innumerable  to  those  dim  distances 
Where,  over  valleys  hanging  in  the  clouds, 
Gigantic  mountains  and  volcanic  peaks 
Catching  the  wefts  of  cirrus  fleece  appeared 
To  smoke  against  the  sky,  though  all  was  now 
Dead  as  that  frozen  chaos  of  the  moon, 
Or  some  huge  passion  of  a  slaughtered  soul 
Prostrate  under  the  marching  of  the  stars. 

At  last,  and  in  a  silver  dawn,  they  came 

Suddenly  on  a  broad-winged  estuary, 

And,  in  the  midst  of  it,  an  island  lay, 

There  they  found  shelter,  on  its  leeward  side, 

And  Drake  convened  upon  the  Golden  Hynde 

His  dread  court-martial.     Two  long  hours  he  heard 

Defence  and  accusation,  then  broke  up 

The  conclave,  and,  with  burning  heart  and  brain, 

Feverishly  seeking  everywhere  some  sign 

To  guide  him,  went  ashore  upon  that  isle, 

And  lo,  turning  a  rugged  point  of  rock, 

He  rubbed  his  eyes  to  find  out  if  he  dreamed, 

For  there — a  Crusoe's  wonder,  a  miracle, 

A  sign — before  him  stood  on  that  lone  strand 

Stark,  with  a  stern  arm  pointing  out  his  way 

And  jangling  still  one  withered  skeleton, 

The  grim  black  gallows  where  Magellan  hanged 

His  mutineers.     Its  base  was  white  with  bones 

Picked  by  the  gulls,  and  crumbling  o'er  the  sand 

A  dread  sea-salt,  dry  from  the  tides  of  time. 

There,  on  that  lonely  shore,  Death's  finger-post 

Stood  like  some  old  forgotten  truth  made  strange 

By  the  long  lapse  of  many  memories, 

All  starting  up  in  resurrection  now 

As  at  the  trump  of  doom,  heroic  ghosts 

Out  of  the  cells  and  graves  of  his  deep  brain 

Reproaching  him.     "  Were  this  man  not  thy  friend, 

Ere  now  he  shoxdd  have  died  the  traitor's  death. 

What  wilt  thou  say  to  others  if  they,  too, 


310  DRAKE 

Prove  false?    Or  wilt  thou  slay  the  lesser  and  save 
The  greater  sinner?     Nay,  if  thy  right  hand 
Offend  thee,  cut  it  off!"     And,  in  one  flash, 
Drake  saw  his  path  and  chose  it. 

With  a  voice 
Low  as  the  passionless  anguished  voice  of  Fate 
That  comprehends  all  pain,  but  girds  it  round 
With  iron,  lest  some  random  cry  break  out 
For  man's  misguidance,  he  drew  all  his  men 
Around  him,  saying,  "Ye  all  know  how  I  loved 
Doughty,  who  hath  betrayed  me  twice  and  thrice, 
For  I  still  trusted  him:  he  was  no  felon 
That  I  should  turn  my  heart  away  from  him. 
He  is  the  type  and  image  of  man's  laws; 
While  I — am  lawless  as  the  soul  that  still 
Must  sail  and  seek  a  world  beyond  the  worlds, 
A  law  behind  earth's  laws.     I  dare  not  judge! 
But  ye — who  know  the  mighty  goal  we  seek, 
Who  have  seen  him  sap  our  courage,  hour  by.  hour, 
Till  God  Himself  almost  appeared  a  dream 
Behind  his  technicalities  and  doubts 
Of  aught  he  could  not  touch  or  handle;  ye 
Who  have  seen  him  stir  up  jealousy  and  strife 
Between  our  seamen  and  our  gentlemen, 
Even  as  the  world  stirs  up  continual  strife, 
Bidding  the  man  forget  he  is  a  man 
With  God's  own  patent  of  nobility; 
Ye  who  have  seen  him  strike  this  last  sharp  blow — 
Sharper  than  any  enemy  hath  struck, — 
He  whom  I  trusted,  he  alone  could  strike — 
So  sharply,  for  indeed  I  loved  this  man. 
Judge  ye — for  see,  I  cannot.     Do  not  doubt 
I  loved  this  man! 

But  now,  if  ye  will  let  him  have  his  life, 
Oh,  speak !    But,  if  ye  think  it  must  be  death, 
Hold  up  your  hands  in  silence!"     His  voice  dropped, 
And  eagerly  he  whispered  forth  one  word 
Beyond  the  scope  of  Fate — 

"I  would  not  have  him  die!"     There  was  no  sound 
Save  the  long  thunder  of  eternal  seas, — 
Drake  bowed  his  head  and  waited. 


DRAKE  311 

Suddenly, 
One  man  upheld  his  hand;  then,  all  at  once, 
A  brawny  forest  of  brown  arms  arose 
In  silence,  and  the  great  sea  whispered  Death. 


There,  with  one  big  swift  impulse,  Francis  Drake 
Held  out  his  right  sun-blackened  hand  and  gripped 
The  hand  that  Doughty  proffered  him;  and  lo, 
Doughty  laughed  out  and  said,  "Since  I  must  die, 
Let  us  have  one  more  hour  of  comradeship, 
One  hour  as  old  companions.    Let  us  make 
A  feast  here,  on  this  island,  ere  I  go 
Where  there  is  no  more  feasting."     So  they  made 
A  great  and  solemn  banquet  as  the  day 
Decreased;  and  Doughty  bade  them  all  unlock 
Their  sea-chests  and  bring  out  their  rich  array. 
There,  by  that  wondering  ocean  of  the  West, 
In  crimson  doublets,  lined  and  slashed  with  gold, 
In  broidered  lace  and  double  golden  chains 
Embossed  with  rubies  and  great  cloudy  pearls 
They  feasted,  gentlemen  adventurers, 
Drinking  old  malmsey,  as  the  sun  sank  down. 

Now  Doughty,  fronting  the  rich  death  of  day, 
And  flourishing  a  silver  pouncet-box 
With  many  a  courtly  jest  and  rare  conceit, 
There  as  he  sat  in  rich  attire,  out-braved 
The  rest.     Though  darker-hued,  yet  richer  far, 
His  murrey-coloured  doublet  double-piled 
Of  Genoa  velvet,  puffed  with  ciprus,  shone; 
For  over  its  grave  hues  the  gems  that  bossed 
His  golden  collar,  wondrously  relieved, 
Blazed  lustrous  to  the  West  like  stars.    But  Drake 
Was  clad  in  black,  with  midnight  silver  slashed, 
And,  at  his  side,  a  great  two-handed  sword. 
At  last  they  rose,  just  as  the  sun's  last  rays 
Rested  upon  the  heaving  molten  gold 
Immeasurable.     The  long  slow  sigh  of  the  waves 
That  creamed  across  the  lonely  time-worn  reef 
All  round  the  island  seemed  the  very  voice 


312  DRAKE 

Of  the  Everlasting:  black  against  the  sea 

The  gallows  of  Magellan  stretched  its  arm 

With  the  gaunt  skeleton  and  its  rusty  chain 

Creaking  and  swinging  in  the  solemn  breath 

Of  eventide  like  some  strange  pendulum 

Measuring  out  the  moments  that  remained. 

There  did  they  take  the  holy  sacrament 

Of  Jesus'  body  and  blood.    Then  Doughty  and  Drake 

Kissed  each  other,  as  brothers,  on  the  cheek; 

And  Doughty  knelt.    And  Drake,  without  one  word, 

Leaning  upon  the  two-edged  naked  sword 

Stood  at  his  side,  with  iron  lips,  and  eyes 

Full  of  the  sunset;  while  the  doomed  man  bowed 

His  head  upon  a  rock.    The  great  sun  dropped 

Suddenly,  and  the  land  and  sea  were  dark;     . 

And  as  it  were  a  sign,  Drake  lifted  up 

The  gleaming  sword.     It  seemed  to  sweep  the  heavens 

Down  in  its  arc  as  he  smote,  once,  and  no  more. 

Then,  for  a  moment,  silence  froze  their  veins, 

Till  one  fierce  seamen  stooped  with  a  hoarse  cry; 

And,  like  an  eagle  clutching  up  its  prey, 

His  arm  swooped  down  and  bore  the  head  aloft, 

Gorily  streaming,  by  the  long  dark  hair; 

And  a  great  shout  went  up,  "So  perish  all 

Traitors  to  God  and  England."     Then  Drake  turned 

And  bade  them  to  their  ships;  and,  wondering, 

They  left  him.     As  the  boats  thrust  out  from  shore 

Brave  old  Tom  Moone  looked  back  with  faithful  eyes 

Like  a  great  mastiff  to  his  master's  face. 

He,  looming  larger  from  his  loftier  ground 

Clad  with  the  slowly  gathering  night  of  stars 

And  gazing  seaward  o'er  his  quiet  dead, 

Seemed  like  some  Titan  bronze  in  grandeur  based 

Unshakeable  until  the  crash  of  doom 

Shatter  the  black  foundations  of  the  world. 


DRAKE  313 

BOOK  IV 

Dawn,  everlasting  and  almighty  Dawn, 

Hailed  by  ten  thousand  names  of  death  and  birth, 

Who,  chiefly  by  thy  name  of  Sorrow,  seem'st 

To  half  the  world  a  sunset,  God's  great  Dawn, 

Fair  light  of  all  earth's  partings  till  we  meet 

Where  dawn  and  sunset,  mingling  East  and  West, 

Shall  make  in  some  deep  Orient  of  the  soul 

One  radiant  Rose  of  Love  for  evermore; 

Teach  me,  oh  teach  to  bear  thy  broadening  light, 

Thy  deepening  wonder,  lest  as  old  dreams  fade 

With  love's  unfaith,  like  wasted  hours  of  youth, 

And  dim  illusions  vanish  in  thy  beam, 

Their  rapture  and  their  anguish  break  that  heart 

Which  loved  them,  and  must  love  for  ever  now. 

Let  thy  great  sphere  of  splendour,  ring  by  ring 

For  ever  widening,  draw  new  seas,  new  skies, 

WTthin  my  ken;  yet,  as  I  still  must  bear 

This  love,  help  me  to  grow  in  spirit  with  thee. 

Dawn  on  my  song  which  trembles  like  a  cloud 

Pierced  with  thy  beauty.     Rise,  shine,  as  of  old 

Across  the  wondering  ocean  in  the  sight 

Of  those  world-wandering  mariners,  when  earth 

Rolled  flat  up  to  the  Gates  of  Paradise, 

And  each  slow  mist  that  curled  its  gold  away 

From  each  new  sea  they  furrowed  into  pearl 

Might  bring  before  their  blinded  mortal  eyes 

God  and  the  Glory.    Lighten  as  on  the  soul 

Of  him  that  all  night  long  in  torment  dire, 

Anguish  and  thirst  unceasing  for  thy  ray 

Upon  that  lonely  Patagonian  shore 

Had  lain  as  on  the  bitterest  coasts  of  Hell. 

For  all  night  long,  mocked  by  the  dreadful  peace 

Of  world-wide  seas  that  darkly  heaved  and  sank 

With  cold  recurrence,  like  the  slow  sad  breath 

Of  a  fallen  Titan  dying  all  alone 

In  lands  beyond  all  human  loneliness, 

While  far  and  wide  glimmers  that  broken  targe 

Hurled  from  tremendous  battle  with  the  gods, 

And,  as  he  breathes  in  pain,  the  chain-mail  rings 


314  DRAKE 

Round  his  broad  breast  a  muffled  rattling  make 
For  many  a  league,  so  seemed  the  sound  of  waves 
Upon  those  beaches — there,  be-mocked  all  night, 
Beneath  Magellan's  gallows,  Drake  had  watched 
Beside  his  dead;  and  over  him  the  stars 
Paled  as  the  silver  chariot  of  the  moon 
Drove,  and  her  white  steeds  ramped  in  a  fury  of  foam 
On  splendid  peaks  of  cloud.     The  Golden  Hynde 
Slept  with  those  other  shadows  on  the  bay. 
Between  him  and  his  home  the  Atlantic  heaved; 
And,  on  the  darker  side,  across  the  strait 
Of  starry  sheen  that  softly  rippled  and  flowed 
Betwixt  the  mainland  and  his  isle,  it  seemed 
Death's  Gates  indeed  burst  open.    The  night  yawned 
Like  a  foul  wound.    Black  shapes  of  the  outer  dark 
Poured  out  of  forests  older  than  the  world; 
And,  just  as  reptiles  that  take  form  and  hue, 
Speckle  and  blotch,  in  strange  assimilation 
From  thorn  and  scrub  and  stone  and  the  waste  earth 
Through  which  they  crawl,  so  that  almost  they  seem 
The  incarnate  spirits  of  their  wilderness, 
Were  these  most  horrible  kindred  of  the  night. 
iEonian  glooms  unfathomable,  grim  aisles, 
Grotesque,  distorted  boughs  and  dancing  shades 
Out-belched  their  dusky  brood  on  the  dim  shore; 
Monsters  with  sooty  limbs,  red-raddled  eyes, 
And  faces  painted  yellow,  women  and  men; 
Fierce  naked  giants  howling  to  the  moon, 
And  loathlier  Gorgons  with  long  snaky  tresses 
Pouring  vile  purple  over  pendulous  breasts 
Like  wine-bags.     On  the  mainland  beach  they  lit 
A  brushwood  fire  that  reddened  creek  and  cove 
And  lapped  their  swarthy  limbs  with  hideous  tongues 
Of  flame;  so  near  that  by  their  light  Drake  saw 
The  blood  upon  the  dead  man's  long  black  hair 
Clotting  corruption.     The  fierce  funeral  pyre 
Of  all  things  fair  seemed  rolling  on  that  shore; 
And  in  that  dull  red  battle  of  smoke  and  flame, 
While  the  sea  crunched  the  pebbles,  and  dark  drums 
Rumbled  out  of  the  gloom  as  if  this  earth 
Had  some  Titanic  tigress  for  a  soul 


DRAKE  315 

Purring  in  forests  of  Eternity 

Over  her  own  grim  dreams,  his  lonely  .spirit 

Passed  through  the  circles  of  a  world-wide  waste 

Darker  than  ever  Dante  roamed.    No  gulf 

Was  this  of  fierce  harmonious  reward, 

Where  Evil  moans  in  anguish  after  death, 

Where  all  men  reap  as  they  have  sown,  where  gluttons 

Gorge  upon  toads  and  usurers  gulp  hot  streams 

Of  molten  gold.    This  was  that  Malebolge 

Which  hath  no  harmony  to  mortal  ears, 

But  seems  the  reeling  and  tremendous  dream 

Of  some  omnipotent  madman.    There  he  saw 

The  naked  giants  dragging  to  the  flames 

Young  captives  hideous  with  a  new  despair: 

He  saw  great  craggy  blood-stained  stones  upheaved 

To  slaughter,  saw  through  mists  of  blood  and  fire 

The  cannibal  feast  prepared,  saw  filthy  hands 

Rend  limb  from  limb,  and  almost  dreamed  he  saw 

Foul  mouths  a-drip  with  quivering  human  flesh 

And  horrible  laughter  in  the  crimson  storm  ^ 

That  clomb  and  leapt  and  stabbed  at  the  high  heaven 

Till  the  whole  night  seemed  saturate  with  red. 

And  all  night  long  upon  the  Golden  Hynde, 
A  cloud  upon  the  waters,  brave  Tom  Moone 
Watched  o'er  the  bulwarks  for  some  dusky  plunge 
To  warn  him  if  that  savage  crew  should  mark 
His  captain  and  swim  over  to  his  isle. 
Whistle  in  hand  he  watched,  his  boat  well  ready, 
His  men  low-crouched  around  him,  swarthy  faces 
Grim-chinned  upon  the  taffrail,  muttering  oaths 
That  trampled  down  the  fear  i'  their  bristly  throats, 
While  at  their  sides  a  dreadful  hint  of  steei 
Sent  stray  gleams  to  the  stars.     But  little  heed 
Had  Drake  of  all  that  menaced  him,  though  oit 
Some  wandering  giant,  belching  from  the  feast, 
All  blood-besmeared,  would  come  so  near  he  heard 
His  heavy  breathing  o'er  the  narrow  strait. 
Yet  little  care  had  Drake,  for  though  he  sat 
Bowed  in  the  body  above  his  quiet  dead, 
His  burning  spirit  wandered  through  the  wastes, 


316  DRAKE 

Wandered  through  hells  behind  the  apparent  hell, 

Horrors  immeasurable,  clutching  at  dreams 

Found  fair  of  old,  but  now  most  foul.     The  world 

Leered  at  him  through  its  old  remembered  mask 

Of  beauty:  the  green  grass  that  clothed  the  fields 

Of  England  (shallow,  shallow  fairy  dream !) 

What  was  it  but  the  hair  of  dead  men's  graves, 

Rooted  in  death,  enriched  with  all  decay? 

And  like  a  leprosy  the  hawthorn  bloom 

Crawled  o'er  the  whitening  bosom  of  the  spring; 

And  bird  and  beast  and  insect,  ay  and  man, 

How  fat  they  fed  on  one  another's  blood ! 

And  Love,  what  faith  in  Love,  when  spirit  and  flesh 

Are  found  of  such  a  filthy  composition? 

And  Knowledge,  God,  his  mind  went  reeling  back 

To  that  dark  voyage  on  the  deadly  coast 

Of  Panama,  where  one  by  one  his  men 

Sickened  and  died  of  some  unknown  disease, 

Till  Joseph,  his  own  brother,  in  his  arms 

Died;  and  Drake  trampled  down  all  tender  thought, 

All  human  grief,  and  sought  to  find  the  cause, 

For  his  crew's  sake,  the  ravenous  unknown  cause 

Of  that  fell  scourge.     There,  in  his  own  dark  cabin, 

Lit  by  the  wild  light  of  the  swinging  lanthorn, 

He  laid  the  naked  body  on  that  board 

Where  they  had  supped  together.      He  took  the  knife 

From  the  ague-stricken  surgeon's  palsied  hands, 

And  while  the  ship  rocked  in  the  eternal  seas 

And  dark  waves  lapped  against  the  rolling  hulk 

Making  the  silence  terrible  with  voices, 

He  opened  his  own  brother's  cold  white  corse, 

That  pale  deserted  mansion  of  a  soul, 

Bidding  the  surgeon  mark,  with  his  own  eyes, 

While  yet  he  had  strength  to  use  them,  the  foul  spots, 

The  swollen  liver,  the  strange  sodden  heart, 

The  yellow  intestines.     Yea,  his  dry  lips  hissed 

There  in  the  stark  face  of  Eternity, 

"Seest  thou?      Seest  thou?    Knowest  thou  what  it  means?" 

Then,  like  a  dream  up-surged  the  belfried  night 

Of  Saint  Bartholomew,  the  scented  palaces 

Whence  harlots  leered  out  on  the  twisted  streets 


DRAKE  317 

Of  Paris,  choked  with  slaughter!    Europe  flamed 

With  human  torches,  living  altar  candles, 

Lighted  before  the  Cross  where  men  had  hanged 

The  Christ  of  little  children.     Cirque  by  cirque 

The  world-wide  hell  reeled  round  him,  East  and  West, 

To  where  the  tortured  Indians  worked  the  will 

Of  lordly  Spain  in  golden-famed  Peru. 

"God,  is  thy  world  a  madman's  dream?"  he  groaned: 

And  suddenly,  the  clamour  on  the  shore 

Sank  and  that  savage  horde  melted  away 

Into  the  midnight  forest  as  it  came, 

Leaving  no  sign,  save  where  the  brushwood  fire 

Still  smouldered  like  a  ruby  in  the  gloom  ; 

And  into  the  inmost  caverns  of  his  mind 

That  other  clamour  sank,  and  there  was  peace. 

"A  madman's  dream,"  he  whispered,  "Ay,  to  me 

A  madman's  dream,"  but  better,  better  far 

Than  that  which  bears  upon  its  awful  gates, 

Gates  of  a  hell  defined,  unalterable, 

Abandon  hope  all  ye  who  enter  here! 

Here,  here  at  least  the  dawn  hath  power  to  bring 

New  light,  new  hope,  new  battles.     Men  may  fight 

And  sweep  away  that  evil,  if  no  more, 

At  least  from  the  small  circle  of  their  swords; 

Then  die,  content  if  they  have  struck  one  stroke 

For  freedom,  knowledge,  brotherhood;  one  stroke 

To  hasten  that  great  kingdom  God  proclaims 

Each  morning  through  the  trumpets  of  the  Dawn. 

And  far  away,  in  Italy,  that  night 

Young  Galileo,  gazing  upward,  heard 

The  self-same  whisper  from  the  abyss  of  stars 

Which  lured  the  soul  of  Shakespeare  as  he  lay 

Dreaming  in  may-sweet  England,  even  now, 

And  with  its  infinite  music  called  once  more 

The  soul  of  Drake  out  to  the  unknown  West. 

Now  like  a  wild  rose  in  the  fields  of  heaven 
Slipt  forth  the  slender  fingers  of  the  Dawn, 
And  drew  the  great  grey  Eastern  curtains  back 
From  the  ivory  saffroned  couch.     Rosily  slid 


318  DRAKE 

One  shining  foot  and  one  warm  rounded  knee 

From  silken  coverlets  of  the  tossed-back  clouds. 

Then,  like  the  meeting  after  desolate  years, 

Face  to  remembered  face,  Drake  saw  the  Dawn 

Step  forth  in  naked  splendour  o'er  the  sea ; 

Dawn,  bearing  still  her  rich  divine  increase 

Of  beauty,  love,  and  wisdom  round  the  world; 

The  same,  yet  not  the  same.     So  strangely  gleamed 

Her  pearl  and  rose  across  the  sapphire  waves 

That  scarce  he  knew  the  dead  man  at  his  feet. 

His  world  was  made  anew.     Strangely  his  voice 

Rang  through  that  solemn  Eden  of  the  morn 

Calling  his  men,  and  stranger  than  a  dream 

Their  boats  black-blurred  against  the  crimson  East, 

Or  flashing  misty  sheen  where'er  the  light 

Smote  on  their  smooth  wet  sides,  like  seraph  ships 

Moved  in  a  dewy  glory  towards  the  land; 

Their  oars  of  glittering  diamond  broke  the  sea 

As  by  enchantment  into  burning  jewels 

And  scattered  rainbows  from  their  flaming  blades. 

The  clear  green  water  lapping  round  their  prows, 

The  words  of  sharp  command  as  now  the  keels 

Crunched  on  his  lonely  shore,  and  the  following  wave 

Leapt  slapping  o'er  the  sterns,  in  that  new  light 

Were  more  than  any  miracle.     At  last 

Drake,  as  they  grouped  a  little  way  below 

The  crumbling  sandy  cliff  whereon  he  stood, 

Seeming  to  overshadow  them  as  he  loomed 

A  cloud  of  black  against  the  crimson  sky, 

Spoke,  as  a  man  may  hardly  speak  but  once: 

"My  seamen,  oh  my  friends,  companions,  kings; 

For  I  am  least  among  you,  being  your  captain; 

And  ye  are  men,  and  all  men  born  are  kings, 

By  right  divine,  and  I  the  least  of  these 

Because  I  must  usurp  the  throne  of  God 

And  sit  in  judgment,  even  till  I  have  set 

My  seal  upon  the  red  wax  of  this  blood, 

This  blood  of  my  dead  friend,  ere  it  grow  cold. 

Not  all  the  waters  of  that  mighty  sea 

Could  wash  my  hands  of  sin  if  I  should  now 

Falter  upon  my  path.     But  look  to  it,  you, 


DRAKE  319 

Whose  word  was  doom  last  night  to  this  dead  man; 

Look  to  it,  I  say,  look  to  it!     Brave  men  might  shrink 

From  this  great  voyage;  but  the  heart  of  him 

Who  dares  turn  backward  now  must  be  so  hardy 

That  God  might  make  a  thousand  millstones  of  it 

To  hang  about  the  necks  of  those  that  hurt 

Some  little  child,  and  cast  them  in  the  sea. 

Yet  if  ye  will  be  found  so  more  than  bold, 

Speak  now,  and  I  will  hear  you;  God  will  judge. 

But  ye  shall  take  four  ships  of  these  my  five, 

Tear  out  the  lions  from  their  painted  shields, 

And  speed  you  homeward.    Leave  me  but  one  ship, 

My  Golden  Hynde,  and  five  good  friends,  nay  one, 

To  watch  when  I  must  sleep,  and  I  will  prove 

This  judgment  just  against  all  winds  that  blow. 

Now  ye  that  will  return,  speak,  let  me  know  you, 

Or  be  for  ever  silent,  for  I  swear 

Over  this  butchered  body,  if  any  swerve 

Hereafter  from  the  straight  and  perilous  way, 

He  shall  not  die  alone.     What?     Will  none  speak? 

My  comrades  and  my  friends !     Yet  ye  must  learn, 

Mark  me,  my  friends,  I'd  have  you  all  to  know 

That  ye  are  kings.     I'll  have  no  jealousies 

Aboard  my  fleet.     I'll  have  the  gentleman 

To  pull  and  haul  wi'  the  seaman.     I'll  not  have 

That  canker  of  the  Spaniards  in  my  fleet. 

Ye  that  were  captains,  I  cashier  you  all. 

I'll  have  no  captains;  I'll  have  nought  but  seamen, 

Obedient  to  my  will,  because  I  serve 

England.     What,  will  ye  murmur?     Have  a  care, 

Lest  I  should  bid  you  homeward  all  alone, 

You  whose  white  hands  are  found  too  delicate 

For  aught  but  dallying  with  your  jewelled  swords! 

And  thou,  too,  master  Fletcher,  my  ship's  chaplain, 

Mark  me,  I'll  have  no  priest-craft.     I  have  heard 

Overmuch  talk  of  judgment  from  thy  lips, 

God's  judgment  here,  God's  judgment  there,  upon  us? 

Whene'er  the  winds  are  contrary,  thou  takest 

Their  powers  upon  thee  for  thy  moment's  end. 

Thou  art  God's  minister,  not  God's  oracle: 

Chain  up  thy  tongue  a  little,  or,  by  His  wounds, 


320  DRAKE 

If  thou  canst  read  this  wide  world  like  a  book, 

Thou  hast  so  little  to  fear,  I'll  set  thee  adrift 

On  God's  great  sea  to  find  thine  own  way  home. 

Why,  'tis  these  very  tyrannies  o'  the  soul 

We  strike  at  when  we  strike  at  Spain  for  England; 

And  shall  we  here,  in  this  great  wilderness, 

Ungrappled  and  unchallenged,  out  of  sight, 

Alone,  without  one  struggle,  sink  that  fl?g 

Which,  when  the  cannon  thundered,  could  but  stream 

Triumphant  over  all  the  storms  of  death. 

Nay,  master  Wynter  and  my  gallant  captains, 

I  see  ye  are  tamed.     Take  up  your  ranks  again 

In  humbleness,  remembering  ye  are  kings, 

Kings  for  the  sake  and  by  the  will  of  England, 

Therefore  her  servants  till  your  lives'  last  end. 

Comrades,  mistake  not  this,  our  little  fleet 

Is  freighted  with  the  golden  heart  of  England, 

And,  if  we  fail,  that  golden  heart  will  break. 

The  world's  wide  eyes  are  on  us,  and  our  souls 

Are  woven  together  into  one  great  flag 

Of  England.     Shall  we  strike  it?     Shall  it  be  rent 

Asunder  with  small  discord,  part3r  strife, 

Ephemeral  conflict  of  contemptible  tongues, 

Or  shall  it  be  blazoned,  blazoned  evermore 

On  the  most  heaven-wide  page  of  history? 

This  is  that  hour,  I  know  it  in  my  soul, 

When  we  must  choose  for  England.     Ye  are  kings, 

And  sons  of  Vikings,  exiled  from  j^our  throne. 

Have  ye  forgotten?     Nay,  your  blood  remembers! 

There  is  your  kingdom,  Vikings,  that  great  ocean 

Whose  tang  is  in  your  nostrils.     Ye  must  choose 

Whether  to  re-assume  it  now  for  England, 

To  claim  its  thunders  for  her  panoply, 

To  lay  its  lightnings  in  her  sovereign  hands, 

Win  her  the  great  commandment  of  the  sea 

And  let  its  glory  roll  with  her  dominion 

Round  the  wide  world  for  ever,  sweeping  back 

All  evil  deeds  and  dreams,  or  whether  to  yield 

For  evermore  that  kinghood.     Ye  must  learn 

Here  in  this  golden  dawn  our  great  emprise 


DRAKE  321 

Is  greater  than  we  knew.    Eye  hath  not  seen, 
Ear  hath  not  heard  what  came  across  the  dark 
Last  night,  as  there  anointed  with  that  blood 
I  knelt  and  saw  the  wonder  that  should  be. 
I  saw  new  heavens  of  freedom,  a  new  earth 
Released  from  all  old  tyrannies.     I  saw 
The  brotherhood  of  man,  for  which  we  rode, 
Most  ignorant  of  the  splendour  of  our  spears, 
Against  the  crimson  dynasties  of  Spain. 
Mother  of  freedom,  home  and  hope  and  love, 
Our  little  island,  far,  how  far  away, 
I  saw  thee  shatter  the  whole  world  of  hate, 
I  saw  the  sunrise  on  thy  helmet  flame 
With  new-born  hope  for  all  the  world  in  thee  S 
Come  now,  to  sea,  to  sea!" 

And  ere  they  knew 
What  power  impelled  them,  with  one  mighty  cry 
They  lifted  up  their  hearts  to  the  new  dawn 
And  hastened  down  the  shores  and  launched  the  boats, 
And  in  the  fierce  white  out-draught  of  the  waves 
Thrust  with  their  brandished  oars  and  the  boats  leapt 
Out,  and  they  settled  at  the  groaning  thwarts, 
And  the  white  water  boiled  before  their  blades, 
As,  with  Drake's  iron  hand  upon  the  helm, 
His  own  boat  led  the  way;  and   ere  they  knew 
What  power  as  of  a  wind  bore  them  along, 
Anchor  was  up,  their  hands  were  on  the  sheets, 
The  sails  were  broken  out  and  that  small  squadron 
Was  flying  like  a  sea-bird  to  the  South. 
Now  to  the  strait  Magellanus  they  came, 
And  entered  in  with  ringing  shouts  of  joy. 
Nor  did  they  think  there  was  a  fairer  strait 
In  all  the  world  than  this  which  lay  so  calm 
Between  great  silent  mountains  crowned  with  snow, 
Unutterably  lonely.     Marvellous 
The  pomp  of  dawn  and  sunset  on  those  heights, 
And  like  a  strange  new  sacrilege  the  advance 
Of  prows  that  ploughed  that  time-forgotten  tide. 
But  soon  rude  flaws,  cross  currents,  tortuous  channels 

21 


322  DRAKE 

Bewildered  them,  and  many  a  league  they  drove 

As  down  some  vaster  Acheron,  while  the  coasts 

With  wailing  voices  cursed  them  all  night  long, 

And  once  again  the  hideous  fires  leapt  red 

By  many  a  grim  wrenched  crag  and  gaunt  ravine. 

So  for  a  hundred  leagues  of  whirling  spume 

They  groped,  till  suddenly,  far  away,  they  saw 

Full  of  the  sunset,  like  a  cup  of  gold, 

The  purple  Westward  portals  of  the  strait. 

Onward  o'er  roughening  waves  they  plunged  and  reached 

Capo  Desiderato,  where  they  saw 

What  seemed  stupendous  in  that  lonely  place, — 

Gaunt,  black,  and  sharp  as  death  against  the  sky 

The  Cross,  the  great  black  Cross  on  Cape  Desire, 

Which  dead  Magellan  raised  upon  the  height 

To  guide,  or  so  he  thought,  his  wandering  ships, 

Not  knowing  they  had  left  him  to  his  doom, 

Not  knowing  how  with  tears,  with  tears  of  joy, 

Rapture,  and  terrible  triumph,  and  deep  awe, 

Another  should  come  voyaging  and  read 

Unutterable  glories  in  that  sign; 

While  his  rough  seamen  raised  their  mighty  shout 

And,  once  again,  before  his  wondering  eyes, 

League  upon  league  of  awful  burnished  gold, 

Rolled  the  unknown  immeasurable  sea. 

Now,  in  those  days,  as  even  Magellan  held, 

Men  thought  that  Southward  of  the  strait  there  swept 

Firm  land  up  to  the  white  Antarticke  Pole, 

Which  now  not  far  the}'  deemed.     But  when  Drake  passed 

From  out  the  strait  to  take  his  Northward  way 

Up  the  Pacific  coast,  a  great  head-wind 

Suddenly  smote  them;  and  the  heaving  seas 

Bulged  all  around  them  into  billowy  hills, 

Dark  rolling  mountains,  whose  majestic  crests 

Like  wild  white  flames  far-blown  and  savagely  flickering 

Swept  through  the  clouds;  and  on  their  sullen  slopes 

Like  wind-whipt  withered  leaves  those  little  ships, 

Now  hurtled  to  the  Zenith  and  now  plunged 

Down  into  bottomless  gulfs,  were  suddenly  scattered 

And  whirled  away.     Drake,  on  the  Golden  Hynde, 


DRAKE  .  323 

One  moment  saw  them  near  him,  soaring  up 
Above  him  on  the  huge  o'crhjinging  billows 
As  if  to  crash  down  on  his  poop;  the  next, 
A  mile  of  howling  sea  had  swept  between 
Each  of  those  wind-whipt  straws,  and  they  were  gone 
Through  roaring  deserts  of  embattled  death, 
Where,  like  a  hundred  thousand  chariots  charged 
With  lightnings  and  with  thunders,  one  great  wave 
Leading  the  unleashed  ocean  down  the  storm 
Hurled  them  away  to  Southward. 

One  last  glimpse 
Drake  caught  o'  the  Marygold,  when  some  mighty  vortex 
Wide  as  the  circle  of  the  wide  sea-line 
Swept  them  together  again.     He  saw  her  staggering 
With  mast  snapt  short  and  wreckage-tangled  deck 
Where  men  like  insects  clung.     He  saw  the  waves 
Leap  over  her  mangled  hulk,  like  wild  white  wolves, 
Volleying  out  of  the  clouds  down  dismal  steeps 
Of  green-black  water.    Like  a  wounded  steed 
Quivering  upon  its  haunches,  up  she  heaved 
Her  head  to  throw  them  off.     Then,  in  one  mass 
Of  fury  crashed  the  great  deep  over  her, 
Trampling  her  down,  down  into  the  nethermost  pit, 
As  with  a  madman's  wrath.     She  rose  no  more, 
And  in  the  stream  of  the  ocean's  hurricane  laughter 
The  Golden  Hynde  went  hurtling  to  the  South, 
With  sails  rent  into  ribbons  and  her  mast 
Snapt  like  a  twig.    Yea,  where  Magellan  thought 
Firm  land  had  been,  the  little  Golden  Hynde 
Whirled  like  an  autumn  leaf  through  league  on  league 
Of  bursting  seas,  chaos  on  crashing  chaos, 
A  rolling  wilderness  of  charging  Alps 
That  shook  the  world  with  their  tremendous  war; 
Grim  beetling  cliffs  that  grappled  with  clamorous  gulfs, 
Valleys  that  yawned  to  swallow  the  wide  heaven ; 
Immense  white-flowering  fluctuant  precipices, 
And  hills  that  swooped  down  at  the  throat  of  hell; 
From  Pole  to  Pole,  one  blanching  bursting  storm 
Of  world-wide  oceans,  where  the  huge  Pacific 
Roared  greetings  to  the  Atlantic  and  both  swept 


324  DRAKE 

In  broad  white  cataracts,  league  on  struggling  league, 

Pursuing  and  pursued,  immeasurable, 

With  Titan  hands  grasping  the  rent  black  sky 

East,  West,  North,  South.     Then,  then  was  battle  indeed 

Of  midget  men  upon  that  wisp  of  grass 

The  Golden  Hynde,  who,  as  her  masts  crashed,  hung 

Clearing  the  tiny  wreckage  from  small  decks 

With  ant-like  weapons.     Not  their  captain's  voice 

Availed  them  now  amidst  the  deafening  thunder 

Of  seas  that  felt  the  heavy  hand  of  God, 

Only  they  saw  across  the  blinding  spume 

In  steely  flashes,  grand  and  grim,  a  face, 

Like  the  last  glimmer  of  faith  among  mankind, 

Calm  in  this  warring  universe,  where  Drake 

Stood,  lashed  to  his  post,  beside  the  helm.     Black  seas 

Buffeted  him.     Half-stunned  he  dashed  away 

The  sharp  brine  from  his  eagle  eyes  and  turned 

To  watch  some  mountain-range  come  rushing  down 

As  if  to  o'erwhelm  them  utterly.     Once,  indeed, 

Welkin  and  sea  were  one  black  wave,  white-fanged, 

White-crested,  and  up-heaped  so  mightily 

That,  though  it  coursed  more  swiftly  than  a  herd 

Of  Titan  steeds  upon  some  terrible  plain 

Nigh  the  huge  City  of  Ombos,  yet  it  seemed 

Most  strangely  slow,  with  all  those  crumbling  crest3 

Each  like  a  cataract  on  a  mountain-side, 

And  moved  with  the  steady  majesty  of  doom 

High  over  him.     One  moment's  flash  of  fear, 

And  yet  not  fear,  but  rather  life's  regret, 

Felt  Drake,  then  laughed  a  low  deep  laugh  of  joy 

Such  as  men  taste  in  battle;  yea,  'twas  good 

To  grapple  thus  with  death;  one  low  deep  laugh, 

One  mutter  as  of  a  lion  about  to  spring, 

Then  burst  that  thunder  o'er  him.     Height  o'er  height 

The  heavens  rolled  down,  and  waves  were  all  the  world. 

Meanwhile,  in  England,  dreaming  of  her  sailor, 
Far  off,  his  heart's  bride  waited,  of  a  proud 
And  stubborn  house  the  bright  and  gracious  flower. 
Whom  oft  her  father  urged  with  scanty  grace 
That  Drake  was  dead  and  she  had  best  forget 


DRAKE  325 

The  fellow,  he  grunted.     For  her  father's  heart 

Was  fettered  with  small  memories,  mocked  by  all 

The  greater  world's  traditions  and  the  trace 

Of  earth's  low  pedigree  among  the  suns, 

Ringed  with  the  terrible  twilight  of  the  Gods, 

Ringed  with  the  blood-red  dusk  of  dying  nations, 

His  faith  was  in  his  grandam's  mighty  skirt, 

And,  in  that  awful  consciousness  of  power, 

Had  it  not  been  that  even  in  this  he  feared 

To  sully  her  silken  flounce  or  farthingale 

Wi'  the  white  dust  on  his  hands,  he  would  have  chalked 

To  his  own  shame,  thinking  it  shame,  the  word 

Nearest  to  God  in  its  divine  embrace 

Of  agonies  and  glories,  the  dread  word 

Demos  across  that  door  in  Nazareth 

Whence  came  the  prentice  carpenter  whose  voice 

Hath  shaken  kingdoms  down,  whose  menial  gibbet 

Rises  triumphant  o'er  the  wreck  of  Empires 

And  stretches  out  its  arms  amongst  the  Stars. 

But  she,  his  daughter,  only  let  her  heart 

Loveably  forge  a  charter  for  her  love, 

Cheat  her  false  creed  with  faithful  faery  dreams 

That  wrapt  her  love  in  mystery;  thought,  perchance, 

He  came  of  some  unhappy  noble  race 

Ruined  in  battle  for  some  lost  high  cause. 

And,  in  the  general  mixture  of  men's  blood, 

Her  dream  was  truer  than  his  whose  bloodless  pride 

Urged  her  to  wed  the  chinless  moon-struck  fool 

Sprung  from  five  hundred  years  of  idiocy 

Who  now  besought  her  hand;  would  force  her  bear 

Some  heir  to  a  calf's  tongue  and  a  coronet, 

Whose  cherished  taints  of  blood  will  please  his  friends 

With  "Yea,  Sir  William's  first-born  hath  the  freak, 

The  family  freak,  being  embryonic.     Yea, 

And  with  a  fine  half-wittedness,  forsooth. 

Praise  God,  our  children's  children  yet  shall  see 

The  lord  o'  the  manor  muttering  to  himself 

At  midnight  by  the  gryphon-guarded  gates, 

Or  gnawing  his  nails  in  desolate  corridors, 

Or  pacing  moonlit  halls,  dagger  in  hand, 

Waiting  to  stab  his  father's  pitiless  ghost." 


326  DRAKE 

So  she — the  girl — Sweet  Bess  of  Sydenham, 

Most  innocently  proud,  was  prouder  yet 

Than  thus  to  let  her  heart  stoop  to  the  lure 

Of  lording  lovers,  though  her  unstained  soul 

Slumbered  amidst  those  dreams  as  in  old  tales 

The  princess  in  the  enchanted  forest  sleeps 

Till  the  prince  wakes  her  with  a  kiss  and  draws 

The  far-flung  hues  o'  the  gleaming  magic  web 

Into  one  heart  of  flame.    And  now,  for  Drake, 

She  slept  like  Brynhild  in  a  ring  of  fire 

Which  he  must  pass  to  win  her.     For  the  wrath 

Of  Spain  now  flamed,  awaiting  his  return, 

All  round  the  seas  of  home;  and  even  the  Queen 

Elizabeth  flinched,  as  that  tremendous  Power 

Menaced  the  heart  of  England,  flinched  and  vowed 

Drake's  head  to  Spain's  ambassadors,  though  still 

By  subtlety  she  hoped  to  find  some  way 

Later  to  save  or  warn  him  ere  he  came. 

Perchance  too,  nay,  most  like,  he  will  be  slain 

Or  even  now  lies  dead,  out  in  the  West, 

She  thought,  and  then  the  promise  works  no  harm. 

But,  day  by  day,  there  came  as  on  the  wings 

Of  startled  winds  from  o'er  the  Spanish  Main, 

Strange  echoes  as  of  sacked  and  clamouring  ports 

And  battered  gates  of  fabulous  golden  cities, 

A  murmur  out  of  the  sunset  of  Peru, 

A  sea-bird's  wail  from  Lima.     While  no  less 

The  wrathful  menace  gathered  up  its  might 

All  round  our  little  isle;  till  now  the  King 

Philip  of  Spain  half  secretly  decreed 

The  building  of  huge  docks  from  which  to  launch 

A  Fleet  Invincible  that  should  sweep  the  seas 

Of  all  the  world,  throttle  with  one  broad  grasp 

All  Protestant  rebellion,  having  stablished 

His  red  feet  in  the  Netherlands,  thence  to  hurl 

His  whole  World-Empire  at  this  little  isle, 

England,  our  mother,  home  and  hope  and  love, 

And  bend  her  neck  beneath  his  yoke.     For  now 

No  half  surrender  sought  he.     At  his  back, 

Robed  with  the  scarlet  of  a  thousand  martyrs, 

Admonishing  him,  stood  Rome,  and,  in  her  hand, 


DRAKE  327 

Grasping  the  Cross  of  Christ  by  its  great  hilt, 
She  pointed  it,  like  a  dagger,  tow'rds  the  throat 
Of  England. 

One  long  year,  two  years  had  passed 
Since  Drake  set  sail  from  grey  old  Plymouth  Sound; 
And  in  those  woods  of  faery  wonder  still 
Slumbered  his  love  in  steadfast  faith.     But  now 
With  louder  lungs  her  father  urged — "He  is  dead: 
Forget  him.     There  is  one  that  loves  you,  seeks 
Your  hand  in  marriage,  and  he  is  a  goodly  match 
E'en  for  my  daughter.    You  shall  wed  him,  Bess!" 
But  when  the  new-found  lover  came  to  woo, 
Glancing  in  summer  silks  and  radiant  hose, 
Whipt  doublet  and  enormous  pointed  shoon, 
She  played  him  like  a  fish  and  sent  him  home 
Spluttering  with  dismay,  a  stickleback 
Discoloured,  a  male  minnow  of  dimpled  streams 
With  all  his  rainbows  paling  in  the  prime, 
To  hide  amongst  his  lilies,  while  once  more 
She  took  her  casement  seat  that  overlooked 
The  sea  and  read  in  Master  Spenser's  book, 
Which  Francis  gave  "To  my  dear  lady  and  queen 
Bess,"  that  most  rare  processional  of  love — 
"Sweet  Thames,  run  softly  till  I  end  my  song!" 
Yet  did  her  father  urge  her  day  by  day, 
And  day  by  day  her  mother  dinned  her  ears 
With  petty  saws,  as — "When  I  was  a  girl," 
And  "I  remember  what  my  father  said," 
And  "Love,  oh  feather-fancies  plucked  from  geese 
You  call  your  poets!"     Yet  she  hardly  meant 
To  slight  true  love,  save  in  her  daughter's  heart; 
For  the  old  folk  ever  find  it  hard  to  see 
The  passion  of  their  children.     When  it  wakes, 
The  child  becomes  a  stranger.     So  with  Bess; 
But  since  her  soul  still  slumbered,  and  the  moons 
Rolled  on  and  blurred  her  soul's  particular  love 
With  the  vague  unknown  impulse  of  her  youth, 
Her  brave  resistance  often  melted  now 
In  tears,  and  her  will  weakened  day  by  day; 
Till  on  a  dreadful  summer  morn  there  came, 


328  DRAKE 

Borne  by  a  wintry  flaw,  home  to  the  Thames, 

A  bruised  and  battered  ship,  all  that  was  left, 

So  said  her  crew,  of  Drake's  ill-fated  fleet. 

John  Wynter,  her  commander,  told  the  tale 

Of  how  the  Golden  Hynde  and  Marygold 

Had  by  the  wind  Euroclydon  been  driven 

Sheer  o'er  the  howling  edges  of  the  world; 

Of  how  himself  by  God's  good  providence 

Was  hurled  into  the  strait  Magellanus; 

Of  how  on  the  horrible  frontiers  of  the  Void 

He  had  watched  in  vain,  lit  red  with  beacon-fires 

The  desperate  coasts  o'  the  black  abyss,  whence  none 

Ever  returned,  though  many  a  week  he  watched 

Beneath  the  Cross;  and  only  saw  God's  wrath 

Burn  through  the  heavens  and  devastate  the  mountains, 

And  hurl  unheard  of  oceans  roaring  down 

After  the  lost  ships  in  one  cataract 

Of  thunder  and  splendour  and  fury  and  rolling  doom. 

Then,  with  a  bitter  triumph  in  his  face, 

As  if  this  were  the  natural  end  of  all 

Such  vile  plebeians,  as  if  he  had  foreseen  it, 

As  if  himself  had  breathed  a  tactful  hint 

Into  the  aristocratic  ears  of  God, 

Her  father  broke  the  last  frail  barriers  down, 

Broke  the  poor  listless  will  o'  the  lonely  girl, 

Who  careless  now  of  aught  but  misery 

Promised  to  wed  their  lordling.     Mighty  speed 

They  made  to  press  that  loveless  marriage  on; 

And  ere  the  May  had  mellowed  into  June 

Her  marriage  eve  had  come.     Her  cold  hands  held 

Drake's  gift.     She  scarce  could  see  her  name,  writ  broad 

By  that  strong  hand  as  it  was,  To  my  queen  Bess. 

She  looked  out  through  her  casement  o'er  the  sea, 

Listening  its  old  enchanted  moan,  which  seemed 

Striving  to  speak,  she  knew  not  what.     Its  breath 

Fluttered  the  roses  round  the  grey  old  walls, 

And  shook  the  ghostly  jasmine.     A  great  moon 

Hung  like  a  red  lamp  in  the  sycamore. 

A  corn-crake  in  the  hay-fields  far  away 

Chirped  like  a  cricket,  and  the  night-jar  churred 


DRAKE  329 

His  passionate  love-song.     Soft-winged  moths  besieged 

Her  lantern.     Under  many  a  star-stabbed  elm 

The  nightingale  began  his  golden  song, 

Whose  warm  thick  notes  are  each  a  drop  of  blood 

From  that  small  throbbing  breast  against  the  thorn 

Pressed  close  to  turn  the  white  rose  into  red; 

Even  as  her  lawn-clad  may-white  bosom  pressed 

Quivering  against  the  bars,  while  her  dark  hair 

Streamed  round  her  shoulders  and  her  small  bare  feet 

Gleamed  in  the  dusk.     Then  spake  she  to  her  maid — 

"I  cannot  sleep,  I  cannot  sleep  to-night. 

Bring  thy  lute  hither  and  sing.     Alison,  think  you 

The  dead  can  watch  us  from  their  distant  world? 

Can  our  dead  friends  be  near  us  when  we  weep? 

I  wish  'twere  so !  for  then  my  love  would  come, 

No  matter  then  how  far,  my  love  would  come, 

And  he'd  forgive  me." 

Then  Bess  bowed  down  her  lovely  head :  her  breast 
Heaved  with  short  sobs  ,  sickening  at  the  heart, 
She  grasped  the  casement  moaning,  "Love,  Love,  Loves 
Come  quickly,  come,  before  it  is  too  late, 
Come  quickly,  oh  come  quickly." 

Then  her  maid 
Slipped  a  soft  arm  around  her  and  gently  drew 
The  supple  quivering  body,  shaken  with  sobs, 
And  all  that  firm  young,  sweetness  to  her  breast, 
And  led  her  to  her  couch,  and  all  night  long 
She  watched  beside  her,  till  the  marriage  morn 
Blushed  in  the  heartless  East.     Then  swiftly  flew 
The  pitiless  moments,  till — as  in  a  dream — 
And  borne  along  by  dreams,  or  like  a  lily 
Cut  from  its  anchorage  in  the  stream  to  glide 
Down  the  smooth  bosom  of  an  unknown  world 
Through  fields  of  unknown  blossom,  so  moved  Bess 
Amongst  her  maids,  as  the  procession  passed 
Forth  to  the  little  church  upon  the  cliffs, 
And,  as  in  those  days  was  the  bridal  mode, 
Her  lustrous  hair  in  billowing  beauty  streamed 
Dishevelled  o'er  her  shoulders,  while  the  sun 
Caressed  her  bent  and  glossy  head,  and  shone 


330  DRAKE 

Over  the  deep  blue,  white-flaked,  wrinkled  sea, 
On  full-blown  rosy-petalled  sails  that  flashed 
Like  flying  blossoms  fallen  from  her  crown. 


BOOK  V 

I 

With  the  fruit  of  Aladdin's  garden  clustering  thick  in  her  hold, 
With  rubies  awash  in  her  scuppers  and  her  bilge  ablaze  with 

gold, 
A  world  in  arms  behind  her  to  sever  her  Jieart  from  home, 
The  Golden  Hynde  drove  onward  over  the  glittering  foam. 

II 

If  we  go  as  we  came,  by  the  Southward,  we  meet  wV  the  fleets  of 

Spain! 
'Tis  a  thousand  to  one  against  us:  we'll  turn  to  the  West  again! 
We  have  captured  a  China  pilot,  his  charts  and  his  golden  keys: 
We'll  sail  to  the  golden  Gateway,  over  the  golden  seas. 

Over  the  immeasurable  molten  gold 

Wrapped  in  a  golden  haze,  onward  they  drew; 

And  now  they  saw  the  tinj'-  purple  quay 

Grow  larger  and  darker  and  brighten  into  brown 

Across  the  swelling  sparkle  of  the  waves. 

Brown  on  the  quay,  a  train  of  tethered  mules 

Munched  at  the  nose-bags,  while  a  Spaniard  drowsed 

On  guard  beside  what  seemed  at  first  a  heap 

Of  fish,  then  slowly  turned  to  silver  bars 

Up-piled  and  glistering  in  the  enchanted  sun. 

Nor  did  that  sentry  wake  as,  like  a  dream, 

The  Golden  Hynde  divided  the  soft  sleep 

Of  warm  green  lapping  water,  sidled  up, 

Sank  sail,  and  moored  beside  the  quay.     But  Drake, 

Lightly  leaping  ashore  and  stealing  nigh, 

Picked  up  the  Spaniard's  long  gay-ribboned  gun 

Close  to  his  ear.     At  once,  without  a  sound, 

The  watchman  opened  his  dark  eyes  and  stared 


DRAKE  331 

As  at  strange  men  who  suddenly  had  come, 

Borne  by  some  magic  carpet,  from  the  stars; 

Then,  with  a  courtly  bow,  his  right  hand  thrust 

Within  the  lace  embroideries  of  his  breast. 

Politely  Drake,  with  pained  apologies 

For  this  disturbance  of  a  cavalier 

Napping  on  guard,  straightway  resolved  to  make 

Complete  amends,  by  now  relieving  him 

Of  these — which  doubtless  troubled  his  repose — 

These  anxious  bars  of  silver.     With  that  word 

Two  seamen  leaped  ashore  and,  gathering  up 

The  bars  in  a  stout  old  patch  of  tawny  sail, 

Slung  them  aboard.     No  sooner  this  was  done 

Than  out  o'  the  valley,  like  a  foolish  jest 

Out  of  the  mouth  of  some  great  John-a-dreams, 

In  soft  procession  of  buffoonery 

A  woolly  train  of  llamas  proudly  came 

Stepping  by  two  and  two  along  the  quay, 

Laden  with  pack  on  pack  of  silver  bars 

And  driven  by  a  Spaniard.     His  amaze 

The  seamen  greeted  with  profuser  thanks 

For  his  most  punctual  thought  and  opportune 

Courtesy.     None  the  less  they  must  avouch 

It  pained  them  much  to  see  a  cavalier 

Turned  carrier;  and,  at  once,  they  must  insist 

On  easing  him  of  that  too  sordid  care. 


Then  out  from  Tarapaca  once  again 

They  sailed,  their  hold  a  glimmering  mine  of  wealth, 

Towards  Arica  and  Lima,  where  they  deemed 

The  prize  of  prizes  waited  unaware. 

For  every  year  a  gorgeous  galleon  sailed 

With  all  the  harvest  of  Potosi's  mines 

And  precious  stones  from  dead  king's  diadems, 

Aztecs'  and  Incas'  gem-encrusted  crowns, 

Pearls  from  the  glimmering  Temples  of  the  Moon, 

Rich  opals  with  their  milky  rainbow-clouds, 

White  diamonds  from  the  Temples  of  the  Sun, 

Carbuncles  flaming  scarlet,  amethysts, 


332  DRAKE 

Rubies,  and  sapphires;  these  to  Spain  she  brought 

To  glut  her  priestly  coffers.     Now  not  far 

Ahead  they  deemed  she  lay  upon  that  coast, 

Crammed  with  the  lustrous  Indies,  wx-ung  with  threat 

And  torture  from  the  naked  Indian  slaves. 

To  him  that  spied  her  top-sails  first  a  prize 

Drake  offered  of  the  wondrous  chain  he  wore; 

And  every  seaman,  every  ship-boy,  watched 

Not  only  for  the  prize,  but  for  their  friends, 

If  haply  these  had  weathered  through  the  storm. 

Nor  did  they  know  their  friends  had  homeward  turned3 

Bearing  to  England  and  to  England's  Queen, 

And  his  heart's  queen,  the  tale  that  Drake  was  dead. 

Northward  they  cruised  along  a  warm  wild  coast 
That  like  a  most  luxurious  goddess  drowsed 
Supine  to  heaven,  her  arms  behind  her  head, 
One  knee  up-thrust  to  make  a  mountain-peak, 
Her  rosy  breasts  up-heaving  their  soft  snow 
In  distant  Andes,  and  her  naked  side 
With  one  rich  curve  for  half  a  hundred  leagues 
Bathed  by  the  creaming  foam;  her  heavy  hair 
Fraught  with  the  perfume  of  a  thousand  forests 
Tossed  round  about  her  beauty;  and  her  mouth 
A  scarlet  mystery  of  distant  flower 
Up-turned  to  take  the  kisses  of  the  sun. 
But  like  a  troop  of  boys  let  loose  from  school 
The  adventurers  went  by,  startling  the  stillness 
Of  that  voluptuous  dream-encumbered  shore 
With  echoing  shouts  of  laughter  and  alien  song. 

But  as  they  came  to  Arica,  from  afar 
They  heard  the  clash  of  bells  upon  the  breeze, 
And  knew  that  Rumour  with  her  thousand  wings 
Had  rushed  before  them.     Horsemen  in  the  night 
Had  galloped  through  the  white  coast-villages 
And  spread  the  dreadful  cry  "El  Draque!"  abroad, 
And  when  the  gay  adventurers  drew  nigh 
They  found  the  quays  deserted,  and  the  ships 
All  flown,  except  one  little  fishing-boat 
Wherein  an  old  man  like  a  tortoise  moved 


DRAKE  333 

A  wrinkled  head  above  the  rusty  net 

His  crawling  hands  repaired.     He  seemed  to  dwell 

Outside  the  world  of  war  and  peace,  outside 

Everything  save  his  daily  task,  and  cared 

No  whit  who  else  might  win  or  lose;  for  all 

The  pilot  asked  of  him  without  demur 

He  answered,  scarcely  looking  from  his  work. 

A  galleon  laden  with  eight  hundred  bars 

Of  silver,  not  three  hours  ago  had  flown 

Northward,  he  muttered.     Ere  the  words  were  out, 

The  will  of  Drake  thrilled  through  the  Golden  Hynde 

Like  one  sharp  trumpet-call,  and  ere  they  knew 

What  power  impelled  them,  crowding  on  aU  sail 

Northward  they  surged,  and  roaring  down  the  wind 

At  Chiuli,  port  of  Arequipa,   saw 

The  chase  at  anchor.     Wondering  they  came 

With  all  the  gunners  waiting  at  their  guns 

Bare-armed  and  silent — nearer,  nearer  yet, — 

Close  to  the  enemy.     But  no  sight  or  sound 

Of  living  creature  stirred  upon  her  decks. 

Only  a  great  grey  cat  lay  in  the  sun 

Upon  a  warm  smooth  cannon-butt.     A  chill 

Ran  through  the  veins  of  even  the  boldest  there 

At  that  too  peaceful  silence.     Cautiously 

Drake  neared  her  in  his  pinnace:  cautiously, 

Cutlass  in  hand,  up  that  mysterious  hull 

He  clomb,  and  wondered,  as  he  climbed,  to  breathe 

The  friendly  smell  o'  the  pitch  and  hear  the  waves 

With  their  incessant  old  familiar  sound 

Crackling  and  slapping  against  her  windward  flank. 

A  ship  of  dreams  was  that;  for  when  they  reached 

The  silent  deck,  they  saw  no  crouching  forms, 

They  heard  no  sound  of  life.     Only  the  hot 

Creak  of  the  cordage  whispered  in  the  sun. 

The  cat  stood  up  and  yawned,  and  slunk  away 

Slowly,  with  furtive  glances.     The  great  hold 

Was  empty,  and  the  rich  °abin  stripped  and  bare. 

Suddenly  one  of  the  seamen  with  a  ciy 

Pointed  where,  close  inshore,  a  little  boat 

Stole  towards  the  town;  and,  with  a  louder  cry, 

Drake  bade  his  men  aboard  the  Golden  Ilynde. 


334  DRAKE 

Scarce  had  they  pulled  two  hundred  yards  away 
When,  with  a  roar  that  seemed  to  buffet  the  heavens 
And  rip  the  heart  of  the  sea  out,  one  red  flame 
Blackened  with  fragments,  the  great  galleon  burst 
Asunder !    All  the  startled  waves  were  strewn 
With  wreckage;  and  Drake  laughed — "My  lads,  we  have 

diced 
With  death  to-day,  and  won!    My  merry  lads, 
It  seems  that  Spain  is  bolting  with  the  stakes! 
Now,  if  I  have  to  stretch  the  skies  for  sails 
And  summon  the  blasts  of  God  up  from  the  South 
To  fill  my  canvas,  I  will  overhaul 
Those  dusky  devils  with  the  treasure-ship 
That  holds  our  hard-earned  booty.     Pull  hard  all, 
Hard  for  the  Golden  Hynde." 


And  so  they  came 
At  dead  of  night  on  Callao  de  Lima! 
They  saw  the  harbour  lights  across  the  waves 
Glittering,  and  the  shadowy  hulks  of  ships 
Gathered  together  like  a  flock  of  sheep 
Within  the  port.     With  shouts  and  clink  of  chains 
A  shadowy  ship  was  entering  from  the  North, 
And  like  the  shadow  of  that  shadow  slipped 
The  Golden  Hynde  beside  her  thro'  the  gloom; 
And  side  by  side  they  anchored  in  the  port 
Amidst  the  shipping!     Over  the  dark  tide 
A  small  boat  from  the  customs-house  drew  near. 
A  sleepy,  yawning,  gold-laced  officer 
Boarded  the  Golden  Hynde,  and  with  a  cry, 
Stumbling  against  a  cannon-butt,  he  saw 
The  bare-armed  British  seamen  in  the  gloom 
All  waiting  by  their  guns.     Wildly  he  plunged 
Over  the  side  and  urged  his  boat  away, 
Crying,  "El  Draque!  El  Draque!"     At  that  dread  word 
The  darkness  filled  with  clamour,  and  the  ships, 
Cutting  their  cables,  drifted  here  and  there 
In  mad  attempts  to  seek  the  open  sea. 
Wild  lights  burnt  hither  and  thither,  and  all  the  port, 


DRAKE  335 

One  furnace  of  confusion,  heaved  and  seethed 
In  terror;  for  each  shadow  of  the  night, 
Nay,  the  great  night  itself,  was  all  El  Draque. 
The  Dragon's  wings  were  spread  from  quay  to  quay, 
The  very  lights  that  burnt  from  mast  to  mast 
And  flared  across  the  tide  kindled  his  breath 
To  fire;  while  here  and  there  a  British  pinnace 
Slipped  softly  thro'  the  roaring  gloom  and  glare, 
Ransacking  ship  by  ship;  for  each  one  thought 
A  fleet  had  come  upon  them.     Each  gave  up 
The  struggle  as  each  was  boarded;  while,  elsewhere, 
Cannon  to  cannon,  friends  bombarded  friends. 

Yet  not  one  ounce  of  treasure  in  Callao 

They  found;  for,  fourteen  days  before  they  came, 

That  greatest  treasure-ship  of  Spain,  with  all 

The  gorgeous  harvest  of  that  year,  had  sailed 

For  Panama:  her  ballast — silver  bars; 

Her  cargo — rubies,  emeralds,  and  gold. 

Out  through  the  clamour  and  the  darkness,  out, 

Out  to  the  harbour  mouth,  the  Golden  Hynde, 

Steered  by  the  iron  soul  of  Drake,  returned: 

And  where  the  way  was  blocked,  her  cannon  clove 

A  crimson  highway  to  the  midnight  sea. 

Then  Northward,  Northward,  o'er  the  jewelled  main, 

Under  the  white  moon  like  a  storm  they  drove 

In  quest  of  the  Cacafuego.     Fourteen  days 

Her  start  was;  and  at  dawn  the  fair  wind  sank, 

And  chafing  lay  the  Golden  Hynde,  becalmed; 

While,  on  the  hills,  the  Viceroy  of  Peru 

Marched  down  from  Lima  with  two  thousand  men, 

And  sent  out  four  huge  ships  of  war  to  sink 

Or  capture  the  fierce  Dragon.    Loud  laughed  Drake 

To  see  them  creeping  nigh,  urged  with  great  oars, 

Then  suddenly  pause;  for  none  would  be  the  first 

To  close  with  him.     And,  ere  they  had  steeled  their  hearts 

To  battle,  a  fair  breeze  broke  out  anew, 

And  Northward  sped  the  little  Golden  Hynde 

In  quest  of  the  lordliest  treasure-ship  of  Spain. 


336  DRAKE 

Behind  her  lay  a  world  in  arms;  for  now 

Wrath  and  confusion  clamoured  for  revenge 

From  sea  to  sea.     Spain  claimed  the  pirate's  head 

From  England,  and  awaited  his  return 

With  all  her  tortures.     And  where'er  he  passed 

He  sowed  the  dragon's  teeth,  and  everywhere 

Cadmean  broods  of  armed  men  arose 

And  followed,  followed  on  his  fiery  trail. 

Men  toiled  at  Lima  to  fit  out  a  fleet 

Grim  enough  to  destroy  him.     All  night  long 

The  flare  went  up  from  cities  on  the  coast 

Where  men  like  naked  devils  toiled  to  cast 

Cannon  that  might  have  overwhelmed  the  powers 

Of  Michael  when  he  drave  that  hideous  rout 

Through  livid  chaos  to  the  black  abyss. 

Small  hope  indeed  there  seemed  of  safe  return; 

But  Northward  sped  the  little  Golden  Hynde, 

The  world-watched  midget  ship  of  eighteen  guns, 

Undaunted;  and  upon  the  second  dawn 

Sighted  a  galleon,  not  indeed  the  chase, 

Yet  worth  a  pause;  for  out  of  her  they  took — 

Embossed  with  emeralds  large  as  pigeon's  eggs — 

A  golden  crucifix,  with  eighty  pounds 

In  weight  of  gold.     The  rest  they  left  behind; 

And  onward,  onward,  to  the  North  they  flew — 

A  score  of  golden  miles,  a  score  of  green, 

An  hundred  miles,  eight  hundred  miles  of  foam, 

Rainbows  and  fire,  ransacking  as  they  went 

Ship  after  ship  for  news  o'  the  chase  and  gold : 

Learning  from  every  capture  that  they  drew 

Nearer  and  nearer.    At  Truxillo,  dim 

And  dreaming  city,  a-drowse  with  purple  flowers, 

She  had  paused,  ay,  paused  to  take  a  freight  of  gold! 

At  Paita — she  had  passed  two  days  in  front, 

Only  two  days,  two  days  ahead;  nay,  one! 

At  Quito,  close  inshore,  a  youthful  page, 

Bright-eyed,  ran  up  the  rigging  and  cried,  "A  sail! 

A  sail!     The  Cacafuego!    And  the  chain 

Is  mine!"     And  by  the  strange  cut  of  her  sails, 

Whereof  they  had  been  told  in  Callao, 

They  knew  her! 


DRAKE  337 

Heavily  laden  with  her  gems, 
Lazily  drifting  with  her  golden  fruitage, 
Over  the  magic  seas  they  saw  her  hull 
Loom  as  they  onward  drew;  but  Drake,  for  fear 
The  prey  might  take  alarm  and  run  ashore, 
Trailed  wine-skins,  filled  with  water,  over  the  side 
To  hold  his  ship  back,  till  the  darkness  fell, 
And  with  the  night  the  off-shore  wind  arose. 
At  last  the  sun  sank  down,  the  rosy  light 
Faded  from  Andes'  peaked  and  bosomed  snow: 
The  night-wind  rose:  the  wine-skins  were  up-hauled; 
And,  like  a  hound  unleashed,  the  Golden  Hynde 
Leapt  forward  thro'  the  gloom. 

A  cable's  length 
Divided  them.     The  Cacafuego  heard 
A  rough  voice  in  the  darkness  bidding  her 
Heave  to!    She  held  her  course.     Drake  gave  the  word. 
A  broadside  shattered  the  night,  and  over  her  side 
Her  main-yard  clattered  like  a  broken  wing! 
On  to  her  decks  the  British  sea-dogs  swarmed, 
Cutlass  in  hand :  that  fight  was  at  an  end. 

The  ship  was  cleared,  a  prize  crew  placed  a-board, 
Then  both  ships  turned  their  heads  to  the  open  sea. 
At  dawn,  being  out  of  sight  of  land,  they  'gan 
Examine  the  great  prize.     None  ever  knew 
Save  Drake  and  Gloriana  what  wild  wealth 
They  had  captured  there.     Thus  much  at  least  was  known: 
An  hundredweight  of  gold,  and  twenty  tons 
Of  silver  bullion;  thirteen  chests  of  coins; 
Nuggets  of  gold  unnumbered;  countless  pearls, 
Diamonds,  emeralds;  but  the  worth  of  these 
Was  past  all  reckoning.     In  the  crimson  dawn, 
Ringed  with  the  lonely  pomp  of  sea  and  sky, 
The  naked-footed  seamen  bathed  knee-deep 
In  gold  and  gathered  up  Aladdin's  fruit — 
All-colored  gems — and  tossed  them  in  the  sun. 
The  hold  like  one  great  elfin  orchard  gleamed 
With  dusky  globes  and  tawny  glories  piled, 
Hesperian  apples,  heap  on  mellow  heap, 
Rich  with  the  hues  of  sunset,  rich  and  ripe 
22 


338  DRAKE 

And  ready  for  the  enchanted  cider-press; 
An  Emperor's  ransom  in  each  burning  orb; 
A  kingdom's  purchase  in  each  clustered  bough; 
The  freedom  of  all  slaves  in  every  chain. 


BOOK  VI 

Now  like  the  soul  of  Ophir  on  the  sea 
Glittered  the  Golden  Hynde,  and  all  her  heart 
Turned  home  to  England.     As  a  child  that  finds 
A  ruby  ring  upon  the  highway,  straight 
Homeward  desires  to  run  with  it,  so  she 
Yearned  for  her  home  and  country.     Yet  the  world 
Was  all  in  arms  behind  her.     Fleet  on  fleet 
Awaited  her  return.     Along  the  coast 
The  very  churches  melted  down  their  chimes 
And  cast  them  into  cannon.     To  the  South 
A  thousand  cannon  watched  Magellan's  straits, 
And  fleets  were  scouring  all  the  sea  like  hounds, 
With  orders  that  where'er  they  came  on  Drake, 
Although  he  were  the  Dragon  of  their  dreams, 
They  should  out-blast  his  thunders  and  convey, 
Dead  or  alive,  his  body  back  to  Spain. 

And  Drake  laughed  out  and  said,  "My  trusty  lads 

Of  Devon,  you  have  made  the  wide  world  ring 

With  England's  name;  you  have  swept  one  half  the  seas 

From  sky  to  sky;  and  in  our  oaken  hold 

You  have  packed  the  gorgeous  Indies.     We  shall  sail 

But  slowly  with  such  wealth.     If  we  return, 

We  are  one  against  ten  thousand!     We  will  seek 

The  fabled  Northern  passage,  take  our  gold 

Safe  home;  then  out  to  sea  again  and  try 

Our  guns  against  their  guns." 


And  as  they  sailed 
Northward,  they  swooped  on  warm  blue  Guatulco 
For  food  and  water.     Nigh  the  dreaming  port 


DRAKE  339 

The  grand  alcaldes  in  high  conclave  sat, 
Blazing  with  gold  and  scarlet,  ;as  they  tried 
A  batch  of  negro  slaves  upon  the  charge 
Of  idleness  in  Spanish  mines;  dumb  slaves, 
With  bare  scarred  backs  and  labour-broken  knees, 
And  sorrowful  eyes  like  those  of  wearied  kine 
Spent  from  the  ploughing.     Even  as  the  judge 
Rose  to  condemn  them  to  the  knotted  lash 
The  British  boat's  crew,  quiet  and  compact, 
Entered  the  court.     The  grim  judicial  glare 
Grew  wider  with  amazement,  and  the  judge 
Staggered  against  his  gilded  throne. 

"I  thank 
Almighty  God,"  cried  Drake,  "who  hath  given  me  this 
■ — That  I  who  once,  in  ignorance,  procured 
Slaves  for  the  golden  bawdy-house  of  Spain, 
May  now,  in  England's  name,  help  to  requite 
That  wrong.     For  now  I  say  in  England's  name, 
Where'er  her  standard  flies,  the  slave  shall  stand 
Upright,  the  shackles  fall  from  off  his  limbs. 
Unyoke  the  prisoners :  tell  them  they  are  men 
Once  more,  not  beasts  of  burden.     Set  them  free; 
But  take  these  gold  and  scarlet  popinjays 
Aboard  my  Golden  Hynde;  and  let  them  write 
An  order  that  their  town  shall  now  provide 
My  boats  with  food  and  water." 

This  being  done, 
The  slaves  being  placed  in  safety  on  the  prize, 
The  Golden  Hynde  revictualled  and  the  casks 
Replenished  with  fresh  water,  Drake  set  free 
The  judges  and  swept  Northward  once  again; 
And,  off  the  coast  of  Nicaragua,  found 
A  sudden  treasure  better  than  all  gold ; 
For  on  the  track  of  the  China  trade  they  caught 
A  ship  whereon  two  China  pilots  sailed, 
And  in  their  cabin  lay  the  secret  charts, 
Red  hieroglyphs  of  Empire,  unknown  charts 
Of  silken  sea-roads  down  the  golden  West 
Where  all  roads  meet  and  East  and  West  are  one. 
And,  with  that  mystery  stirring  in  their  hearts 
Like  a  strange  cry  from  home,  Northward  they  swept 


340  DRAKE 

And  Northward,  till  the  soft  luxurious  coasts 

Hardened,  the  winds  grew  bleak,  the  great  green  waves 

Loomed  high  like  mountains  round  them,  and  the  spray 

Froze  on  their  spars  and  yards.     Fresh  from  the  warmth 

Of  tropic  seas  the  men  could  hardly  brook 

That  cold;  and  when  the  floating  hills  of  ice 

Like  huge  green  shadows  crowned  with  ghostly  snow 

Went  past  them  with  strange  whispers  in  the  gloom, 

Or  took  mysterious  colours  in  the  dawn, 

Their  hearts  misgave  them,  and  they  found  no  way; 

But  all  was  iron  shore  and  icy  sea. 

And  one  by  one  the  crew  fell  sick  to  death 

In  that  fierce  winter,  and  the  land  still  ran 

Westward  and  showed  no  passage.     Tossed  with  storms, 

Onward  they  plunged,  or  furrowed  gentler  tides 

Of  ice-lit  emerald  that  made  the  prow 

A  faery  beak  of  some  enchanted  ship 

Flinging  wild  rainbows  round  her  as  she  drove 

Thro'  seas  unsailed  by  mortal  mariners, 

Past  isles  unhailed  of  any  human  voice, 

Where  sound  and  silence  mingled  in  one  song 

Of  utter  solitude.     Ever  as  they  went 

The  flag  of  England  blazoned  the  broad  breeze, 

Northward,  where  never  ship  had  sailed  before, 

Northward,  till  lost  in  helpless  wonderment, 

Dazed  as  a  soul  awakening  from  the  dream 

Of  death  to  some  wild  dawn  in  Paradise 

(Yet  burnt  with  cold  as  they  whose  very  tears 

Freeze  on  their  faces  where  Cocytus  wails) 

All  world-worn,  bruised,  wing-broken,  wracked,  and  wrenched, 

Blackened  with  lightning,  scarred  as  with  evil  deeds, 

But  all  embalmed  in  beauty  by  that  sun 

Which  never  sets,  bosomed  in  peace  at  last 

The  Golden  Hynde  rocked  on  a  glittering  calm. 

Seas  that  no  ship  had  ever  sailed,  from  sky 

To  glistening  sky,  swept  round  them.     Glory  and  gleam, 

Glamour  and  lucid  rapture  and  diamond  air 

Embraced  her  broken  spars,  begrimed  with  gold 

Her  gloomy  hull,  rocking  upon  a  sphere 

New  made,  it  seemed,  mysterious  with  the  first 

Mystery  of  the  world,  where  holy  sky 


DRAKE  341 

And  saered  sea  shone  like  the  primal  Light 
Of  God,  a-stir  with  whispering  sea-bird's  wings 
And  glorious  with  clouds.     Only,  all  day, 
All  night,  the  rhythmic  utterance  of  His  will 
In  the  deep  sigh  of  seas  that  washed  His  throne, 
Rose  and  relapsed  across  Eternity, 
Timed  to  the  pulse  of  aeons.     All  their  world 
Seemed  strange  as  unto  us  the  great  new  heavens 
And  glittering  shores,  if  on  some  aery  bark 
To  Saturn's  coasts  we  came  and  traced  no  more 
The  tiny  gleam  of  our  familiar  earth 
Far  off,  but  heard  tremendous  oceans  roll 
Round  unimagined  continents,  and  saw 
Terrible  mountains  unto  which  our  Alps 
Were  less  than  mole-hills,  and  such  gaunt  ravines 
Cleaving  them  and  such  cataracts  roaring  down 
As  burst  the  gates  of  our  earth-moulded  senses, 
Pour  the  eternal  glory  on  our  souls, 
And,  while  ten  thousand  chariots  bring  the  dawn, 
Hurl  us  poor  midgets  trembling  to  our  knees. 
Glory  and  glamour  and  rapture  of  lucid  air, 
Ice  cold,  with  subtle  colours  of  the  sky 
Embraced  her  broken  spars,  belted  her  hulk 
With  brilliance,  while  she  dipped  her  jacinth  beak 
In  waves  of  mounded  splendour,  and  sometimes 
A  great  ice-mountain  flashed  and  floated  by 
Throned  on  the  waters,  pinnacled  and  crowned 
With  all  the  smouldering  jewels  in  the  world; 
Or  in  the  darkness,  glimmering  berg  on  berg, 
All  emerald  to  the  moon,  went  by  like  ghosts 
Whispering  to  the  South. 

There,  as  they  lay, 
Waiting  a  wind  to  fill  the  stiffened  sails, 
Their  hearts  remembered  that  in  England  now 
The  Spring  was  nigh,  and  in  that  lonely  sea 
The  skilled  musicians  filled  their  eyes  with  home. 


342  DRAKE 

SONG 

I 

It  is  the  Spring-tide  now! 
Under  the  hawthorn-bough 

The  milkmaid  goes: 
Her  eyes  are  violets  blue 
Washed  with  the  morning  dew, 

Her  mouth  a  rose. 

It  is  the  Spring-tide  now. 


II 

The  lanes  are  growing  sweet, 
The  lambkins  frisk  and  bleat 

In  all  the  meadows: 
The  glossy  dappled  kine 
Blink  in  the  warm  sunshine, 

Cooling  their  shadows. 
It  is  the  Spring-tide  now. 

Ill 

Soon  hand  in  sunburnt  hand 
Thro'  God's  green  fairyland, 

England,  our  home, 
Whispering  as  they  stray 
Adoion  the  primrose  way, 

Lovers  will  roam. 

It  is  the  Spring-tide  now. 

And  then,  with  many  a  chain  of  linked  sweetness, 
Harmonious  gold,  they  drew  their  hearts  and  souls 
Back,  back  to  England,  thoughts  of  wife  and  child 
Mother  and  sweetheart  and  the  old  companions, 
The  twisted  streets  of  London  and  the  deep 
Delight  of  Devon  lanes,  all  softly  voiced 
In  words  or  cadences,  made  them  breathe  hard 
And  gaze  across  the  everlasting  sea, 
Craving  for  that  small  isle  so  far  away. 


DRAKE  343 

SONG 
I 

0,  you  beautiful  land, 

Deep-bosomed  with  beeches  and  bright 
With  the  flowery  largesse  of  May 
Sweet  from  the  palm  of  her  hand 
Out-flung,  till  the  hedges  grew  white 
As  the  green-arched  billows  with  spray. 

II 

White  from  the  fall  of  her  feet 
The  daisies  awake  in  the  sun ! 
Cliff-side  and  valley  and  plain 
With  the  breath  of  the  thyme  growing  sweet 
Laugh,  for  the  Spring  is  begun; 

And  Love  hath  turned  homeward  again. 

0,  you  beautiful  land! 

Ill 

Where  should  the  home  be  of  Love, 

But  there,  where  the  hawthorn-tree  blows, 
And  the  milkmaid  trips  out  with  her  pail, 
And  the  skylark  in  heaven  above 
Sings,  till  the  West  is  a  rose 
And  the  East  is  a  nightingale? 

0,  you  beautiful  land! 

IV 

There  where  the  sycamore  trees 
Are  shading  the  satin-skinned  kine, 
And  oaks,  whose  brethren  of  old 
Conquered  the  strength  of  the  seas, 
Grow  broad  in  the  sunlight  and  shine 
Crowned  with  their  cressets  of  gold; 

0,  you  beautiful  land! 


344  DRAKE 

V 

Deep-bosomed  with  beeches  and  bright 
With  rose-coloured  cloudlets  above; 
Billowing  broad  and  grand 
Where  the  meadows  with  blossom  are  white 
For  the  foot-fall,  the  foot-fall  of  Love. 
0,  you  beautiful  land ! 


VI 

How  should  we  sing  of  thy  beauty, 
England,  mother  of  men, 

We  that  can  look  in  thine  eyes 
And  see  there  the  splendour  of  duty 
Deep  as  the  depth  of  their  ken, 
Wide  as  the  ring  of  thy  skies. 


VII 

0,  you  beautiful  land, 

Deep-bosomed  with  beeches  and  bright 
With  the  flowenj  largesse  of  May 
Siveet  from  the  palm  of  her  hand 
Out-flung,  till  the  hedges  greio  white 
As  the  green-arched  billows  with  spray. 

0,  you  beaidiftd  land! 


And  when  a  fair  wind  rose  again,  there  seemed 
No  hope  of  passage  by  that  fabled  way 
Northward,  and  suddenly  Drake  put  down  his  helm 
And,  with  some  wondrous  purpose  in  his  eyes, 
Turned  Southward  once  again,  until  he  found 
A  lonely  natural  harbour  on  the  coast 
Near  San  Francisco,  where  the  cliffs  were  white 
Like  those  of  England,  and  the  soft  soil  teemed 
With  gold.     There  they  careened  the  Golden  Hynde — 


DRAKE  345 

Her  keel  being  thick  with  barnacles  and  weeds — 

And  built  a  fort  and  dockyard  to  refit 

Their  little  wandering  home,  not  half  so  large 

As  many  a  coasting  barque  to-day  that  scarce 

Would  cross  the  Channel,  yet  she  had  swept  the  seas 

Of  half  the  world,  and  even  now  prepared 

For  new  adventures  greater  than  them  all. 

And  as  the  sound  of  chisel  and  hammer  broke 

The  stillness  of  that  shore,  shy  figures  came, 

Keen-faced  and  grave-eyed  Indians,  from  the  woods 

To  bow  before  the  strange  white-faced  newcomers 

As  gods.     Whereat  the  chaplain  all  aghast 

Persuaded  them  with  signs  and  broken  words 

And  grunts  that  even  Drake  was  but  a  man, 

Whom  none  the  less  the  savages  would  crown 

With  woven  flowers  and  barbarous  ritual 

King  of  New  Albion — so  the  seamen  called 

That  land,  remembering  the  white  cliffs  of  home. 

Much  they  implored,  with  many  a  sign  and  cry, 

Which  by  the  rescued  slaves  upon  the  prize 

Were  part  interpreted,  that  Drake  would  stay 

And  rule  them;  and  the  vision  of  the  great 

Empire  of  Englishmen  arose  and  flashed 

A  moment  round  them,  on  that  lonely  shore. 

A  small  and  weather-beaten  band  they  stood, 

Bronzed  seamen  by  the  laughing  rescued  slaves, 

Ringed  with  gigantic  loneliness  and  saw 

An  Empire  that  should  liberate  the  world; 

A  Power  before  the  lightning  of  whose  arms 

Darkness  should  die  and  all  oppression  cease; 

A  Federation  of  the  strong  and  weak, 

Whereby  the  weak  were  strengthened  and  the  strong 

Made  stronger  in  the  increasing  good  of  all; 

A  gathering  up  of  one  another's  loads; 

A  turning  of  the  wasteful  rage  of  war 

To  accomplish  large  and  fruitful  tasks  of  peace, 

Even  as  the  strength  of  some  great  stream  is  turned 

To  grind  the  corn  for  bread.     E'en  thus  on  England 

That  splendour  dawned  which  those  in  dreams  foresaw 

And  saw  not  with  their  living  eyes,  but  thou, 

England,  mayst  lift  up  eyes  at  last  and  see, 


346  DRAKE 

Who,  like  that  angel  of  the  Apocalypse 
Hast  set  one  foot  upon  thy  sea-girt  isle, 
The  other  upon  the  waters,  and  canst  raise 
Now,  if  thou  wilt,  above  the  assembled  nations, 
The  trumpet  of  deliverance  to  thy  lips. 

At  last  their  task  was  done,  the  Golden  Hynde 

Undocked,  her  white  wings  hoisted;  and  away 

Westward  they  swiftly  glided  from  the  shore 

Where,  with  a  wild  lament,  their  Indian  friends, 

Knee-deep  i'  the  creaming  foam,  all  stood  at  gaze, 

Like  men  that  for  one  moment  in  their  lives 

Have  seen  a  mighty  drama  cross  their  path 

And  played  upon  the  stage  of  vast  events 

Knowing,  henceforward,  all  their  life  is  nought. 

But  Westward  sped  the  little  Golden  Hynde 

Across  the  uncharted  ocean,  with  no  guide 

But  that  great  homing  cry  of  all  their  hearts. 

Far  out  of  sight  of  land  they  steered,  straight  out 

Across  the  great  Pacific,  in  those  days 

When  even  the  compass  proved  no  trusty  guide, 

Straight  out  the}'  struck  in  that  small  bark,  straight  out. 

Week  after  week,  without  one  glimpse  of  aught 

But  heaving  seas,  across  the  uncharted  waste 

Straight  to  the  sunset.     Laughingly  they  sailed, 

With  all  that  gorgeous  booty  in  their  holds, 

A  splendour  dragging  deep  through  seas  of  doom, 

A  prey  to  the  first  great  hurricane  that  blew 

Except  their  God  averted  it.     And  still 

Their  skilled  musicians  cheered  the  way  along 

To  shores  beyond  the  sunset  and  the  sea. 

And  oft  at  nights,  the  yellow  fo'c'sle  lanthorn 

Swung  over  swarthy  singing  faces  grouped 

Within  the  four  small  wooden  walls  that  made 

Their  home  and  shut  them  from  the  unfathomable 

Depths  of  mysterious  gloom  without  that  rolled 

All  around  them;  or  Tom  Moone  would  heartily  troll 

A  simple  stave  that  struggled  oft  with  thoughts 

Bej'ond  its  reach,  yet  reached  their  hearts  no  less. 


DRAKE  347 

SONG 

I 

Good  luck  befall  you,  mariners  all 

That  sail  this  world  so  wide! 
Whither  we  go,  not  yet  we  know: 

We  steer  by  wind  and  tide. 
Be  it  right  or  wrong,  I  sing  this  song; 

For  now  it  seems  to  me 
Men  steer  their  soils  thrJ  rocks  and  shoals 

As  mariners  use  by  sea. 

Chorus:  As  mariners  use  by  sea, 
My  lads, 
As  mariners  use  by  sea! 


II 


And  now  they  plough  to  windward,  now 

They  drive  before  the  gale! 
Now  are  they  hurled  across  the  world 

With  torn  and  tattered  sail; 
Yet,  as  they  will,  they  steer  and  still 

Defy  the  xvorld's  rude  glee: 
Till  death  overwhelm  them,  mast  and  helm, 

They  ride  and  rule  the  sea. 

Chorus:  They  ride  a7id  rule  the  sea, 
My  lads, 
They  ride  and  rule  the  sea! 


Meantime,  in  England,  Bess  of  Sydenham, 

Drake's  love  and  queen,  being  told  that  Drake  was  dead, 

And  numbed  with  grief,  obeying  her  father's  will 

That  dreadful  summer  morn  in  bridal  robes 

Had  passed  to  wed  her  father's  choice.     The  sun 

Streamed  smiling  on  her  as  she  went,  half-dazed, 

Amidst  her  smiling  maids.     Nigh  to  the  sea 


348  DRAKE 

The  church  was,  and  the  mellow  marriage  bells 

Mixed  with  its  music.     Far  away,  white  sails 

Spangled  the  sapphire,  white  as  flying  blossoms 

New-fallen  from  her  crown;  but  as  the  glad 

And  sad  procession  neared  the  little  church, 

From  some  strange  ship-of-war,  far  out  at  sea, 

There  came  a  sudden  tiny  puff  of  smoke — 

And  then  a  dull  strange  throb,  a  whistling  hiss, 

And  scarce  a  score  of  yards  away  a  shot 

Ploughed  up  the  turf.     None  knew,  none  ever  knew 

From  whence  it  came,  whether  a  perilous  jest 

Of  English  seamen,  or  a  wanton  deed 

Of  Spaniards,  or  mere  accident;  but  all 

Her  maids  in  flight  were  scattered.     Bess  awoke 

As  from  a  dream,  crying  aloud — "  'Tis  he, 

'Tis  he  that  sends  this  message.     He  is  not  dead. 

I  will  not  pass  the  porch.     Come  home  with  me. 

'Twas  he  that  sent  that  message." 

Nought  availed, 
Her  father's  wrath,  her  mother's  tears,  her  maids' 
Cunning  persuasions,  nought;  home  she  returned, 
And  waited  for  the  dead  to  come  to  life; 
Nor  waited  long;  for  ere  that  month  was  out, 
Rumour  on  rumour  reached  the  coasts  of  England, 
Borne  as  it  seemed  on  sea-birds'  wings,  that  Drake 
Was  on  his  homeward  way. 

BOOK  VII 

The  imperial  wrath  of  Spain,  one  world-wide  sea 

Of  furious  pomp  and  flouted  power,  now  surged 

All  round  this  little  isle,  with  one  harsh  roar 

Deepening  for  Drake's  return — "The  Golden  Hynde 

Ye  swore  had  foundered,  Drake  ye  swore  was  drowned; 

They  are  on  their  homeward  way!     The  head  of  Drake! 

What  answer,  what  account,  what  recompense 

Now  can  ye  yield  our  might  invincible 

Except  the  head  of  Drake,  whose  bloody  deeds 

Have  reddened  the  Pacific,  who  hath  sacked 

Cities  of  gold,  burnt  fleets,  and  ruined  realms, 

What  answer  but  his  life?" 


DRAKE  349 

To  which  the  Queen 
Who  saw  the  storm  of  Europe  slowly  rising 
In  awful  menace  o'er  her  wave-beat  throne, 
And  midmost  of  the  storm,  the  ensanguined  robes 
Of  Rome  and  murderous  hand,  grasping  the  Cross 
By  its  great  hilt,  pointing  it  like  a  brand 
Blood-blackened  at  the  throat  of  England,  saw 
Like  skeleton  castles  wrapt  in  rolling  mist 
The  monstrous  engines  and  designs  of  war, 
The  secret  fleets  and  brooding  panoplies 
Philip  prepared,  growing  from  day  to  day 
In  dusk  armipotcnt  and  embattled  gloom 
Surrounding  her,  replied:  "The  life  of  Drake, 
If,  on  our  strict  enquiry,  in  due  order 
We  find  that  Drake  have  hurt  our  friends,  mark  well, 
If  Drake  have  hurt  our  friends,  the  life  of  Drake." 


And  while  the  world  awaited  him,  as  men 

Might  wait  an  earthquake,  quietly  one  grey  morn,  , 

One  grey  October  morn  of  mist  and  rain 

When  all  the  window-panes  in  Plymouth  dripped 

With  listless  drizzle,  and  only  through  her  streets 

Rumbled  the  death-cart  with  its  drea^  bell 

Monotonously  plangent  (for  the  plague 

Had  lately  like  a  vampire  sucked  the  veins 

Of  Plymouth  town),  a  little  weed-clogged  ship, 

Grey  as  a  ghost,  glided  into  the  Sound 

And  anchored,  scarce  a  soul  to  see  her  come, 

And  not  an  eye  to  read  the  faded  scroll 

Around  her  battered  prow — the  Golden  Hynde. 

Then,  thro'  the  dumb  grey  misty  listless  port, 

A  rumour  like  the  colours  of  the  dawn 

Streamed  o'er  the  shining  quays,  up  the  wet  streets, 

In  at  the  tavern  doors,  flashed  from  the  panes 

And  turned  them  into  diamonds,  fired  the  pools 

In  every  muddy  lane  with  Spanish  gold, 

Flushed  in  a  thousand  faces,  Drake  is  come! 

Down  every  crowding  alley  the  urchins  leaped 

Tossing  their  caps,  the  Golden  Hynde  is  conic! 


350  DRAKE 

Fisherman,  citizen,  prentice,  dame  and  maid, 

Fat  justice,  floury  baker,  bloated  butcher, 

Fishwife,  minister  and  apothecary, 

Yea,  even  the  driver  of  the  death-cart,  leaving 

His  ghastly  load,  using  his  dreary  bell 

To  merrier  purpose,  down  the  seething  streets, 

Panting,  tumbling,  jostling,  helter-skelter 

To  the  water-side,  to  the  water-side  they  rushed, 

And  some  knee-deep  beyond  it,  all  one  wild 

Welcome  to  Francis  Drake! 

Wild  kerchiefs  fluttering,  thunderous  hurrahs 

Rolling  from  quay  to  quay,  a  thousand  arms 

Outstretched  to  that  grey  ghostly  little  ship 

At  whose  masthead  the  British  flag  still  flew; 

Then,  over  all,  in  one  tumultuous  tide 

Of  pealing  joy,  the  Plymouth  bells  outclashed 

A  nation's  welcome  home  to  Francis  Drake. 

The  very  Golden  Hynde,  no  idle  dream, 

The  little  ship  that  swept  the  Spanish  Main, 

Carelessly  lying  there,  in  Plymouth  Sound, 

The  Golden  Hynde,  the  wonder  of  the  world, 

A  glory  wrapt  her  greyness,  and  no  boat 

Dared  yet  approach,  save  one,  with  Drake's  close  friends, 

Who  came  to  warn  him:     "England  stands  alone 

And  Drake  is  made  the  price  of  England's  peace. 

The  Queen,  perforce,  must  temporise  with  Spain, 

The  Invincible!     She  hath  forfeited  thy  life 

To  Spain,  against  her  will.     Only  by  this 

Rejection  of  thee  as  a  privateer 

She  averted  instant  war;  for  now  the  menace 

Of  Spain  draws  nigher,  looms  darker  every  hour. 

The  world  is  made  Spain's  footstool.     Philip,  the  King, 

E'en  now  hath  added  to  her  boundless  power 

Without  a  blow,  the  vast  domains  and  wealth 

Of  Portugal,  and  deadlier  yet,  a  coast 

That  crouches  over  against  us.     Cadiz  holds 

A  huge  Armada,  none  knows  where  to  strike; 

And  even  this  day  a  flying  horseman  brought 

Rumours  that  Spain  hath  landed  a  great  force 

In  Ireland.     Mary  of  Scotland  only  waits 


DRAKE  351 

The  word  to  stab  us  in  the  side  for  Rome. 

The  Queen,  weighed  down  by  Burleigh  and  the  friends 

Of  peace  at  any  cost,  may  yet  be  driven 

To  make  thy  life  our  ransom,  which  indeed 

She  hath  already  sworn,  or  seemed  to  swear." 

To  whom  Drake  answered,  "Gloriana  lives; 
And  in  her  life  mine  only  fear  lies  dead, 
Mine  only  fear,  for  England,  not  myself. 
Willing  am  I  and  glad,  as  I  have  lived, 
To  die  for  England's  sake. 
Yet,  lest  the  Queen  be  driven  now  to  restore 
This  cargo  that  I  bring  her — a  world's  wealth, 
The  golden  springs  of  all  the  power  of  Spain, 
The  jewelled  hearts  of  all  those  cruel  realms 
(For  I  have  plucked  them  out)  beyond  the  sea; 
Lest  she  be  driven  to  yield  them  up  again 
For  Spain  and  Spain's  delight,  I  will  warp  out 
Behind  St.  Nicholas'  Island.     The  fierce  plague 
In  Plymouth  shall  be  colour  and  excuse, 
Until  my  courier  return  from  court 
With  Gloriana's  will.     If  it  be  death, 
I'll  out  again  to  sea,  strew  its  rough  floor 
With  costlier  largesses  than  kings  can  throw, 
And,  ere  I  die,  will  singe  the  Spaniard's  beard 
And  set  the  fringe  of  his  imperial  robe 
Blazing  along  his  coasts.     Then  let  him  roll 
His  galleons  round  the  little  Golden  Hynde, 
Bring  her  to  bay,  if  he  can,  on  the  high  seas, 
Ring  us  about  with  thousands,  we'll  not  yield, 
I  and  my  Golden  Hynde,  we  will  go  down, 
With  flag  still  flying  on  the  last  stump  left  us 
And  all  my  cannon  spitting  out  the  fires 
Of  everlasting  scorn  into  his  face." 

So  Drake  warped  out  the  Golden  Hynde  anew 
Behind  St.  Nicholas'  Island.     She  lay  there, 
The  small  grey-golden  centre  of  the  world 
That  raged  all  round  her,  the  last  hope,  the  star 
Of  Protestant  freedom,  she,  the  outlawed  ship 
Holding  within  her  the  great  head  and  heart 


152  DRAKE 

Of  England's  ocean  power;  and  all  the  fleets 
That  have  enfranchised  earth,  in  that  small  ship, 
Lay  waiting  for  their  doom. 

Past  her  at  night 
Fisher-boats  glided,  wondering  as  they  heard 
In  the  thick  darkness  the  great  songs  they  deemed 
Must  oft  have  risen  from  many  a  lonely  sea; 
For  oft  had  Spaniards  brought  a  rumour  back 
Of  that  strange  pirate  who  in  royal  state 
Sailed  to  a  sound  of  violins,  and  dined 
With  skilled  musicians  round  him,  turning  all 
Battle  and  storm  and  death  into  a  song. 

SONG 

The  same  Sun  is  o'er  us, 

The  same  Love"  shall  find  us, 

The  same  and  none  other 

Wherever  we  be; 

With  the  same  hope  before  us, 

The  same  home  behind  us, 

England,  our  mother, 

Ringed  round  with  the  sea. 

No  land  in  the  ring  of  it 
Now,  all  around  us 
Only  the  splendid 
Re-surging  unknown; 
How  should  we  sing  of  it, 
This  that  hath  found  us 
By  the  great  stars  attended 
At  midnight,  alone? 

Our  highway  none  knoweth, 

Yet  our  blood  hath  discerned  it! 
Clear,  clear  is  our  path  now 
Whose  foreheads  are  free 
Where  the  hurricane  bloweth 
Our  spirits  have  learned  it, 

'Tis  the  highway  of  wrath,  now, 
The  storm's  way,  the  sea. 


DRAKE  353 

When  the  waters  lay  breathless 
Gazing  at  Hesper 

Guarding  that  glorious 
Fruitage  of  gold, 
Heard  we  the  deathless 
Wonderful  whisper 
We  follow,  victorious 
To-night,  as  of  old. 

Ah,  the  broad  miles  of  it 
White  with  the  onset 

Of  waves  without  number 
Warring  for  glee; 
Ah,  the  soft  smiles  of  it 
Down  to  the  sunset, 
Sacred  for  slumber 

The  swan's  bath,  the  sea! 

When  the  breakers  charged  thundering 
In  thousands  all  round  us 
With  a  lightning  of  lances 
Up-hurtled  on  high, 
When  the  stout  ships  were  sundering 
A  rapture  hath  crowned  us 
Like  the  wild  light  that  dances 
On  the  crests  that  flash  by. 

Our  highway  none  knoweth, 
Yet  our  blood  hath  discerned  it! 
Clear,  clear  is  our  path  now 
Whose  foreheads  are  free, 
Where  Euroclydon  blowelh 
Our  spirits  have  learned  it, 

'Tis  the  highway  of  wrath,  now, 
The  storm's  way,  the  sea! 

Who  now  will  follow  us 

Where  England's  flag  leadeth  us, 
Where  gold  not  inveigles, 
Nor  statesmen  betray? 
23 


354  DRAKE 

Tho'  the  deep  midnight  swallow  us 
Let  her  cry  when  she  needeth  us, 
We  return,  her  sea-eagles, 
The  hurricane's  way. 

For  the  same  Sun  is  o'er  us, 
The  same  Love  shall  find  us, 
The  same  and  none  other 
Wherever  we  be; 
With  the  same  hope  before  tis, 
The  same  home  behind  us, 
England,  our  mother, 

Ringed  round  with  the  sea. 

So  six  days  passed,  and  on  the  seventh  returned 

The  courier,  with  a  message  from  the  Queen 

Summoning  Drake  to  court,  bidding  him  bring 

Also  such  curious  trifles  of  his  voyage 

As  might  amuse  her,  also  be  of  good  cheer 

She  bade  him,  and  rest  well  content  his  life 

In  Gloriana's  hands  were  safe:  so  Drake 

Laughingly  landed  with  his  war-bronzed  crew 

Amid  the  wide-eyed  throng  on  Plymouth  beach 

And  loaded  twelve  big  pack-horses  with  pearls 

Beyond  all  price,  diamonds,  crosses  of  gold, 

Rubies  that  smouldered  once  for  Aztec  kings, 

And  great  dead  Incas'  gem-encrusted  crowns. 

Also,  he  said,  we'll  add  a  sack  or  twain 

Of  gold  doubloons,  pieces  of  eight,  moidorc3, 

And  such-like  Spanish  trash,  for  those  poor  lords 

At  court,  lilies  that  toil  not  neither  spin, 

Wherefore,  methinks  their  purses  oft  grow  lean 

In  these  harsh  times.     'Twere  even  as  well  their  tongues 

Wagged  in  our  favour,  now,  as  in  our  blame. 


Six  days  thereafter  a  fearful  whisper  reached 
Mendoza,  plenipotentiary  of  Spain 
In  London,  that  the  pirate  Drake  was  now 
In  secret  conference  with  the  Queen,  nay  more, 


DRAKE  355 

That  he,  the  Master-thief  of  the  golden  world, 
Drake,  even  he,  that  bloody  buccaneer, 
Had  six  hours'  audience  with  her  Majesty- 
Daily,  nay  more,  walked  with  her  in  her  garden 
Alone,  among  the  fiery  Autumn  leaves, 
Talking  of  God  knows  what,  and  suddenly 
The  temporizing  diplomatic  voice 
Of  caution  he  was  wont  to  expect  from  England 
And  blandly  accept  as  his  imperial  due 
Changed  to  a  ringing  key  of  firm  resolve, 
Resistance,  nay,  defiance.     For  when  he  came 
Demanding  audience  of  the  Queen,  behold, 
Her  officers  of  state  with  mouths  awry 
Informed  the  high  ambassador  of  Spain, 
Despite  his  pomp  and  circumstance,  the  Queen 
Could  not  receive  him,  being  in  conference 
With  some  rough  seaman,  pirate,  what  you  will, 
A  fellow  made  of  bronze,  a  buccaneer, 
Maned  like  a  lion,  bearded  like  a  pard, 
With  hammered  head,  clamped  jaws,  and  great  deep  eyes 
That  burned  with  fierce  blue  colours  of  the  brine, 
And  liked  not  Spain — Drake!     'Twas  the  very  name, 
One  Francis  Drake!  a  Titan  that  had  stood, 
Thundering  commands  against  the  thundering  heavens, 
On  lightning-shattered,  storm-swept  decks  and  drunk 
Great  draughts  of  glory  from  the  rolling  sea, 
El  Draque !    El  Draque !     Nor  could  she  promise  aught 
To  Spain's  ambassador,  nor  see  his  face 
Again,  while  yet  one  Spanish  musketeer 
Remained  in  Ireland. 

Vainly  the  Spaniard  raged 
Of  restitution,  recompense;  for  now 
Had  Drake  brought  up  the  little  Golden  Hynde 
To  London,  and  the  rumor  of  her  wealth 
Out-topped  the  wild  reality.     The  crew 
Were  princes  as  they  swaggered  down  the  streets 
In  weather-beaten  splendour.     Out  of  their  doors 
To  wonder  and  stare  the  jostling  citizens  ran 
When  They  went  by;  and  through  the  length  and  breadth 
Of  England,  now,  the  gathering  glory  of  life 
Shone  like  the  dawn.     O'er  hill  and  dale  it  streamed, 


356  DRAKE 

Dawn,  everlasting  and  almighty  dawn, 
Making  a  golden  pomp  of  every  oak — ■ 
Had  not  its  British  brethren  swept  the  seas? — 
In  each  remotest  hamlet,  by  the  hearth, 
The  cart,  the  grey  church-porch,  the  village  pump 
By  meadow  and  mill  and  old  manorial  hall, 
By  turnpike  and  by  tavern,  farm  and  forge, 
Men  staved  the  crimson  vintage  of  romance 
And  held  it  up  against  the  light  and  drank  it, 
And  with  it  drank  confusion  to  the  wrath 
That  menaced  England,  but  eternal  honour, 
While  blood  ran  in  their  veins,  to  Francis  Drake. 


BOOK  VIII 

Meanwhile,  young  Bess  of  Sydenham,  the  queen 

Of  Drake's  deep  heart,  emprisoned  in  her  home, 

Fenced  by  her  father's  angry  watch  and  ward 

Lest  he — the  poor  plebeian  dread  of  Spain, 

Shaker  of  nations,  king  of  the  untamed  seas — 

Might  win  some  word  with  her,  sweet  Bess,  the  flower 

Triumphant  o'er  their  rusty  heraldries, 

Waited  her  lover,  as  in  ancient  tales 

The  pale  princess  from  some  grey  wizard's  tower 

Midmost  the  deep  sigh  of  enchanted  woods 

Looks  for  the  starry  flash  of  her  knight's  shield;. 

Or  on  the  further  side  o'  the  magic  West 

Sees  pushing  through  the  ethereal  golden  gloom 

Some  blurred  black  prow,  with  loaded  colours  coarse, 

Clouded  with  sunsets  of  a  mortal  sea, 

And  rich  with  earthly  crimson.     She,  with  lips 

Apart,  still  waits  the  shattering  golden  thrill 

When  it  shall  grate  the  coasts  of  Fairyland. 

Only,  to  Bess  of  Sydenham,  there  came 
No  sight  or  sound  to  break  that  frozen  spell 
And  lonely  watch,  no  message  from  her  love, 
Or  none  that  reached  her  restless  helpless  hands. 
Only  the  general  rumour  of  the  world 
Borne  to  her  by  the  gossip  of  her  maid 


DRAKE  357 

Kept  the  swift  pictures  passing  through  her  brain 

Of  how  the  Golden  Hynde  was  hauled  ashore 

At  Deptford  through  a  sea  of  exultation, 

And  by  the  Queen's  command  was  now  set  up 

For  an  everlasting  memory ! 

Of  how  the  Queen  with  subtle  statecraft  still 

Kept  Spain  at  arm's-length,  dangling,  while  she  played 

At  fast  and  loose  with  France,  whose  embassy, 

Arriving  with  the  marriage-treaty,  found 

(And  trembled  at  her  daring,  since  the  wrath 

Of  Spain  seemed,  in  their  eyes,  to  flake  with  foam 

The  storm-beat  hulk)  a  gorgeous  banquet  spread 

To  greet  them  on  that  very  Golden  Hynde 

Which  sacked  the  Spanish  main,  a  gorgeous  feast, 

The  like  of  which  old  England  had  not  seen 

Since  the  bluff  days  of  boisterous  king  Hal, 

Great  shields  of  brawn  with  mustard,  roasted  swans, 

Haunches  of  venison,  roasted  chines  of  beef, 

And  chewets  baked,  big  olive-pyes  thereto, 

And  sallets  mixed  with  sugar  and  cinnamon, 

White  wine,  rose-water,  and  candied  eringoes. 

There,  on  the  outlawed  ship,  whose  very  name 

Rang  like  a  blasphemy  in  the  imperial  ears 

Of  Spain  (its  every  old  worm-eaten  plank 

Being  scored  with  scorn  and  courage  that  not  storm 

Nor  death,  nor  all  their  Inquisition  racks, 

The  white-hot  irons  and  bloody  branding  whips 

That  scarred  the  backs  of  Rome's  pale  galley-slaves, 

Her  captured  English  seamen,  ever  could  daunt), 

There  with  huge  Empires  waiting  for  one  word, 

One  breath  of  colour  and  excuse,  to  leap 

Like  wolves  at  the  naked  throat  of  her  small  isle, 

There  in  the  eyes  of  the  staggered  world  she  stood, 

Great  Gloriana,  while  the  live  decks  reeled 

With  flash  of  jewels  and  flush  of  rustling  silks, 

She  stood  with  Drake,  the  corsair,  and  her  people 

Surged  like  a  sea  around.     There  did  she  give 

Open  defiance  with  her  agate  smile 

To  Spain.     "Behold  this  pirate,  now,"  she  cried, 

"Whose  head  my  Lord,  the  Invincible,  Philip  of  Spain 

Demands  from  England.     Kneel  down,  Master  Drake, 


358  DRAKE 

Kneel  down;  for  now  have  I  this  gilded  sword 
Wherewith  to  strike  it  off.     Nay,  thou  my  lord 
Ambassador  of  France,  since  I  be  woman, 
And  squeamish  at  the  sight  of  blood,  give  thou 
The  accolade."     With  that  jest  she  gave  the  hilt 
(Thus,  even  in  boldness,  playing  a  crafty  part, 
And  dangling  France  before  the  adventurous  deed) 
To  Marchaumont;  and  in  the  face  of  Europe, 
With  that  huge  fleet  in  Cadiz  and  the  whole 
World-power  of  Spain  crouching  around  her  isle, 
Knighted  the  master-thief  of  the  unknown  world, 
Sir  Francis  Drake. 

And  then  the  rumour  came 
Of  vaster  privateerings  planned  by  Drake 
Against  the  coasts  of  Philip ;  but  held  in  check 
And  fretting  at  the  leash,  as  ever  the  Queen 
Clung  to  her  statecraft,  while  Drake's  enemies 
Worked  in  the  dark  against  him.     Spain  had  set 
An  emperor's  ransom  on  his  life.    At  home 
John  Doughty,  treacherous  brother  of  that  traitor 
Who  met  his  doom  by  Drake's  own  hand,  intrigued 
With  Spain  abroad  and  Spain's  dark  emissaries 
At  home  to  avenge  his  brother.     Burleigh  still 
Beset  Drake's  path  with  pitfalls:  treacherous  greed 
For  Spain's  blood-money  daggered  all  the  dark 
Around  him,  and  John  Doughty  without  cease 
Sought  to  make  use  of  all;  until,  by  chance, 
Drake  gat  the  proof  of  treasonable  intrigue 
With  Spain,  against  him,  up  to  the  deadly  hilt, 
And  hurled  him  into  the  Tower. 

Many  a  night 
She  sat  by  that  old  casement  nigh  the  sea 
And  heard  its  ebb  and  flow.     With  soul  erect 
And  splendid  now  she  waited,  yet  there  came 
No  message;  and,  she  thought,  he  hath  seen  at  last 
My  little  worth.     And  when  her  maiden  sang, 
With  white  throat  throbbing  softly  in  the  dusk 
And  fingers  gently  straying  o'er  the  lute, 
As  was  her  wont  at  twilight,  some  old  song 
Of  high  disdainful  queens  and  lovers  pale 
Pining  a  thousand  years  before  their  feet. 


DRAKE  359 

She  thought,  "0,  if  my  lover  loved  me  yet 
My  heart  would  break  for  joy  to  welcome  him: 
Perchance  his  true  pride  will  not  let  him  come 
Since  false  pride  barred  him  out";  and  yet  again 
She  burned  with  shame,  thinking,  "to  him  such  pride 
Were  matter  for  a  jest.     Ah  no,  he  hath  seen 
My  little  worth."     Even  so,  one  night  she  sat, 
One  dark  rich  summer  night,  thinking  him  far 
Away,  wrapped  in  the  multitudinous  cares 
Of  one  that  seemed  the  steersman  of  the  State 
Now,  thro'  the  storm  of  Europe;  while  her  maid 
Sang  to  the  lute,  and  soft  sea-breezes  brought 
Wreathed  scents  and  sighs  of  secret  waves  and  flowers 
Warm  through  the  casement's  muffling  jasmine  bloom. 


SONG 


Nymphs  and  naiads,  come  away, 

Love  lies  dead! 
Cover  the  cast-back  golden  head, 
Cover  the  lovely  limbs  with  may, 

And  with  fairest  boughs  of  green, 
And  many  a  rose-wreathed  briar  spray; 
But  let  no  hateful  yew  be  seen 
Where  Love  lies  dead. 

II 

Let  not  the  queen  that  ivould  not  hear, 

{Love  lies  dead!) 
Or  beauty  that  refused  to  save. 

Exult  in  one  dejected  tear; 
But  gather  the  glory  of  the  year, 
The  pomp  and  glory  of  tlie  year, 
The  triumphing  glory  of  the  year, 

And  softly,  softly,  softly  shed 
Its  light  and  fragrance  round  the  grave 
Where  Love  lies  dead. 


360  DRAKE 

The  song  ceased.     Far  away  the  great  sea  slept, 
And  all  was  very  still.     Only  hard  by 
One  bird-throat  j:>oured  its  passion  through  the  gloom, 
And  the  whole  night  breathlessly  listened. 

A  twig 
Snapped,  the  song  ceased,  the  intense  dumb  night  was  all 
One  passion  of  expectation — as  if  that  song 
Were  prelude,  and  ere  long  the  heavens  and  earth 
Would  burst  into  one  great  triumphant  psalm. 
The  song  ceased  only  as  if  that  small  bird-throat 
Availed  no  further.     Would  the  next  great  chord 
Ring  out  from  harps  in  flaming  seraph  hands 
Ranged  through  the  sky?     The  night  watched,  breathless, 

dumb. 
Bess  listened.     Once  again  a  dry  twig  snapped 
Beneath  her  casement,  and  a  face  looked  up, 
Draining  her  face  of  blood,  of  sight,  of  life, 
Whispering,  a  voice  from  far  beyond  the  stars, 
Whispering,  unutterable  joy,  the  whole 
Glory  of  life  and  death  in  one  small  word — 
Sweetheart! 

The  jasmine  at  her  casement  shook, 
She  knew  no  more  than  he  was  at  her  side, 
His  arms  were  round  her,  and  his  breath  beat  warm 
Against  her  cheek. 


Suddenly,  nigh  the  house, 
A  deep-mouthed  mastiff  bayed  and  a  foot  crunched 
The  gravel.     "  Hark !  they  are  watching  for  thee, "  she  cried. 
He  laughed:  "There's  half  of  Europe  on  the  watch 
Outside  for  my  poor  head.     'Tis  cosier  here 
With  thee;  but  now" — his  face  grew  grave,  he  drew 
A  silken  ladder  from  his  doublet — "quick, 
Before  yon  good  gamekeeper  rounds  the  house 
We  must  be  down."     And  ere  the  words  were  out 
Bess  reached  the  path,  and  Drake  was  at  her  side. 
Then  into  the  star-stabbed  shadow  of  the  woods 
They  sped,  his  arm  around  her.     Suddenly 
She  drew  back  with  a  cry,  as  four  grim  faces, 
With  hand  to  forelock,  glimmered  in  their  way. 


DRAKE  361 

Laughing  she  saw  their  storm-beat  friendly  smile 
Welcome  their  doughty  captain  in  this  new 
Adventure.     Far  away,  once  more  they  heard 
The  mastiff  bay;  then  nearer,  as  if  his  nose 
Were  down  upon  the  trail;  and  then  a  cry 
As  of  a  hot  pursuit.     They  reached  the  brook, 
Hurrying  to  the  deep.     Drake  lifted  Bess 
In  his  arms,  and  down  the  watery  bed  they  splashed 
To  baffle  the  clamouring  hunt.     Then  out  of  the  woods 
They  came,  on  the  seaward  side,  and  Bess,  with  a  shiver, 
Saw  starlight  flashing  from  bare  cutlasses, 
As  the  mastiff  bayed  still  nearer.     Swiftlier  now 
*They  passed  along  the  bare  blunt  cliffs  and  saw 
The  furrow  ploughed  by  that  strange  cannon-shot 
Which  saved  this  hour  for  Bess;  down  to  the  beach 
And  starry  foam  that  churned  the  silver  gravel 
Around  an  old  black  lurching  boat,  a  strange 
Grim  Charon's  wheny  for  two  lovers'  flight, 
Guarded  by  old  Tom  Moone.     Drake  took  her  hand, 
And  with  one  arm  around  her  waist,  her  breath 
Warm  on  his  cheek  for  a  moment,  in  she  stepped 
Daintily  o'er  the  gunwale,  and  took  her  seat, 
His  throned  princess,  beside  him  at  the  helm, 
Backed  by  the  glittering  waves,  his  throned  princess, 
With  jewelled  throat  and  glorious  hair  that  seemed 
Flashing  back  scents  and  colours  to  a  sea 
Which  lived  but  to  reflect  her  loveliness. 


Then,  all  together,  with  their  brandished  oars 
The  seamen  thrust  as  a  heavy  mounded  wave 
Lifted  the  boat ;  and  up  the  flowering  breast 
Of  the  next  they  soared,  then  settled  at  the  thwarts, 
And  the  fierce  water  boiled  before  their  blades 
While  with  Drake's  iron  hand  upon  the  helm 
They  plunged  and  ploughed  across  the  starlit  seas 
To  where  a  small  black  lugger  at  anchor  swung, 
Dipping  her  rakish  brow  i'  the  liquid  moon. 
Small  was  she,  but  not  fangless;  for  Bess  saw, 
With  half  a  tremor,  the  dumb  protective  grin 
Of  four  grim  guns  above  the  tossing  boat. 


362  DRAKE 

But  ere  his  seamen  or  his  sweetheart  knew 
What  power,  as  of  a  wind,  bore  them  along, 
Anchor  was  up,  the  sails  were  broken  out, 
And  as  they  scudded  down  the  dim  grey  coast 
Of  a  new  enchanted  world  (for  now  had  Love 
Made  all  things  new  and  strange)  the  skilled  musicians 
Upraised,  at  Drake's  command,  a  song  to  cheer 
Their  midnight  path  across  that  faery  sea. 


SONG 
I 

Sweet,  what  is  love?     "lis  not  the  crown  of  kings, 
Nay,  nor  the  fire  of  white  seraphic  wings ! 
Is  it  a  child's  heart  leaping  while  he  sings? 

Even  so  say  I; 

Even  so  say  I. 

II 

Love  like  a  child  around  our  world  doth  run, 
Happy,  happy,  happy  for  all  that  God  hath  done, 
Glad  of  all  the  little  leaves  dancing  in  the  sun, 

Even  so  say  I; 

Even  so  say  I. 

Ill 

Sweet,  what  is  love?     "Lis  not  the  burning  bliss 
Angels  know  in  heaven !     God  blows  the  world  a  kiss 
Wakes  on  earth  a  wild-rose!     Ah,  who  knows  not  this? 

Even  so  say  I; 

Even  so  say  I. 

IV 

Love,  love  is  kind!  Can  it  be  far  away, 
Lost  in  a  light  that  blinds  our  little  day? 
Seems  it  a  great  thing?     Sweetheart,  answer  nay; 

Even  so  say  I; 

Even  so  say  I. 


DRAKE  363 


Sweet,  what  is  love?    The  dust  beneath  our  feet, 
Whence  breaks  the  rose  and  all  the  flowers  that  greet 
April  and  May  with  lips  and  heart  so  sweet; 

Even  so  say  I; 

Even  so  say  I. 

VI 

Love  is  the  dust  whence  Eden  grew  so  fair, 

Dust  of  the  dust  that  set  my  lover  there, 

Ay,  and  wrought  the  gloriole  of  Eve's  gold  hair, 

Even  so  say  I; 

Even  so  say  I. 

VII 

Also  the  springing  spray,  the  little  topmost  flower 

Swung  by  the  bird  that  sings  a  little  hour, 

Earth's  climbing  spray  into  the  heaven's  blue  bower, 

Even  so  say  I; 

Even  so  say  I. 


And  stranger,  ever  stranger,  grew  the  night 

Around  those  twain,  for  whom  the  fleecy  moon 

Was  but  a  mightier  Cleopatra's  pearl 

Dissolving  in  the  rich  dark  wine  of  night, 

While  'mid  the  tenderer  talk  of  eyes  and  hands 

And  whispered  nothings,  his  great  ocean  realm 

Rolled  round  their  gloomy  barge,  robing  its  hulk 

With  splendours  Rome  and  Egypt  never  knew. 

Old  ocean  was  his  Nile,  his  mighty  queen 

An  English  maiden  purer  than  the  dawn, 

His  cause  the  cause  of  Freedom,  his  reward 

The  glory  of  England.     Strangely  simple,  then, 

Simple  as  life  and  death,  anguish  and  love, 

To  Bess  appeared  those  mighty  dawning  dreams, 

Whereby  he  shaped  the  pageant  of  the  world 

To  a  new  purpose,  strangely  simple  all 

Those  great  new  waking  tides  i'  the  world's  great  soul 


364  DRAKE 

That  set  towards  the  fall  of  tyranny 

Behind  a  thunderous  roar  of  ocean  triumph 

O'er  burning  ships  and  shattered  fleets,  while  England 

Grasped  with  sure  hands  the  sceptre  of  the  sea, 

That  untamed  realm  of  Liberty  which  none 

Had  looked  upon  as  aught  but  wilderness 

Ere  this,  or  even  dreamed  of  as  the  seat 

Of  power  and  judgment  and  high  sovereignty 

Whereby  all  nations  at  the  last  should  make 

One  brotherhood,  and  war  should  be  no  more. 

And  ever,  as  the  vision  broadened  out, 

The  sense  of  some  tremendous  change  at  hand, 

The  approach  of  vast  Armadas  and  the  dawn 

Of  battle,  reddening  the  diviner  dawn 

With  clouds,  confused  it,  till  once  more  the  song 

Rang  out  triumphant  o'er  the  glittering  sea. 


SONG 


Ye  that  follow  the  vision 

Of  the  world's  weal  afar, 
Have  ye  met  with  derision 

And  the  red  laugh  of  war; 
Yet  the  thunder  shall  not  hurt  you, 

Nor  the  battle-storms  dismay; 
Tho'  the  sun  in  heaven  desert  you, 

"Love  ivill  find  out  the  way.'" 

II 

When  the  pulse  of  hope  falters, 

When  the  fire  flickers  low 
On  your  faith's  crumbling  altars, 

And  the  faithless  gods  go; 
When  the  fond  hope  ye  cherished 

Cometh,  kissing,  to  betray; 
When  the  last  star  hath  perished, 

"Love  will  find  out  the  way." 


DRAKE  365 

III 


When  the  last  dream  bereaveth  you, 

And  the  heart  turns  to  stone, 
When  the  last  comrade  leaveth  you 

hi  the  desert,  alone; 
With  the  whole  world  before  you 

Clad  in  battle-array, 
And  the  starless  night  o'er  you, 

"Love  will  find  out  the  way." 


IV 

Your  dreamers  may  dream  it 

The  shadow  of  a  dream, 
Your  sages  may  deem  it 

A  bubble  on  the  stream; 
Yet  our  kingdom  drawcth  nigher 

With  each  dawn  and  every  day, 
Through  the  earthquake  and  the  fire 

"Love  will  find  out  the  way." 

V 

Love  will  find  it,  tho'  the  nations 

Rise  up  blind,  as  of  old, 
And  the  new  generations 

Wage  their  warfares  of  gold; 
Tho'  they  trample  child  and  mother 

As  red  clay  into  the  clay, 
Where  brother  wars  with  brother, 

"Love  will  find  out  the  way." 


Dawn,  ever  bearing  some  divine  increase 

Of  beauty,  love,  and  wisdom  round  the  world, 

Dawn,  like  a  wild-rose  in  the  fields  of  heaven 

Washed  grey  with  dew,  awoke,  and  found  the  barque 

At  anchor  in  a  little  land-locked  bay. 

A  crisp  breeze  blew,  and  all  the  living  sea 

Beneath  the  flower-soft  colours  of  the  sky, 


366  DRAKE 

Now  like  a  myriad-petalled  rose  and  now 

Innumerably  scalloped  into  shells 

Of  rosy  fire,  with  dwindling  wrinkles  edged 

Fainter  and  fainter  to  the  unruffled  glow 

And  soft  white  pallor  of  the  distant  deep, 

Shone  with  a  mystic  beauty  for  those  twain 

Who  watched  the  gathering  glory;  and,  in  an  hour, 

Drake  and  sweet  Bess,  attended  by  a  guard 

Of  four  swart  seamen,  with  bare  cutlasses, 

And  by  the  faithful  eyes  of  old  Tom  Moone, 

Went  up  the  rough  rock-steps  and  twisted  street 

O'  the  small  white  sparkling  seaport,  tow'rds  the  church 

Where,  hand  in  hand,  before  God's  altar  they, 

With  steadfast  eyes,  did  plight  eternal  troth, 

And  so  were  wedded.     Never  a  chime  of  bells 

Had  they;  but  as  they  passed  from  out  the  porch 

Between  the  sleeping  graves,  a  skylark  soared 

Above  the  world  in  an  ecstasy  of  song, 

And  quivering  heavenwards,  lost  himself  in  light. 


BOOK  IX 

Now  like  a  white-cliffed  fortress  England  shone 

Amid  the  mirk  of  chaos;  for  the  huge 

Empire  of  Spain  was  but  the  dusky  van 

Of  that  dread  night  beyond  all  nights  and  days, 

Night  of  the  last  corruption  of  a  world 

Fast-bound  in  misery  and  iron,  with  chains 

Of  priest  and  king  and  feudal  servitude, 

Night  of  the  fettered  flesh  and  ravaged  soul, 

Night  of  anarchic  chaos,  darkening  the  deep, 

Swallowing  up  cities,  kingdoms,  empires,  gods, 

With  vaster  gloom  approaching,  till  the  sun 

Of  love  was  blackened,  the  moon  of  faith  was  blood. 

All  round  our  England,  our  small  struggling  star, 

Fortress  of  freedom,  rock  o'  the  world's  desire, 

Bearing  at  last  the  hope  of  all  mankind, 

The  thickening  darkness  surged,  and  close  at  hand 

Those  first  fierce  cloudy  fringes  of  the  storm, 


DRAKE  367 

The  Armada  sails,  gathered  their  might;  and  Spain 

Crouched  close  behind  them  with  her  screaming  fires 

And  steaming  shambles,  Spain,  the  hell-hag,  crouched, 

Still  grasping  with  red  hand  the  cross  of  Christ 

By  its  great  hilt,  pointing  it  like  a  dagger, 

Spear-head  of  the  ultimate  darkness,  at  the  throat 

Of  England.     Under  Philip's  feet  at  last 

Writhed  all  the  Protestant  Netherlands,  dim  coasts 

Right  over  against  us,  whence  his  panoplies 

Might  suddenly  whelm  our  isle.     But  all  night  long, 

On  many  a  mountain,  many  a  guardian  height, 

From  Beachy  Head  to  Skiddaw,  little  groups 

Of  seamen,  torch  and  battle-lanthorn  nigh, 

Watched  by  the  brooding  unlit  beacons,  piled 

Of  sun-dried  gorse,  funereal  peat,  rough  logs, 

Reeking  with  oil,  'mid  sharp  scents  of  the  sea, 

Waste  trampled  grass  and  heather  and  close-cropped  thyme, 

High  o'er  the  thundering  coast,  among  whose  rocks 

Far,  far  below,  the  pacing  coastguards  gazed 

Steadfastly  seaward  through  the  loaded  dusk. 

And  through  that  deepening  gloom  when,  as  it  seemed, 

All  England  held  her  breath  in  one  grim  doubt, 

Swift  rumours  flashed  from  North  to  South  as  runs 

The  lightning  round  a  silent  thunder-cloud; 

And  there  were  muttering  crowds  in  the  London  streets, 

And  hurrying  feet  in  the  brooding  Eastern  ports. 

All  night,  dark  inns,  gathering  the  country-side, 

Reddened  with  clashing  auguries  of  war. 

All  night,  in  the  ships  of  Plymouth  Sound,  the  soul 

Of  Francis  Drake  was  England,  and  all  night 

Her  singing  seamen  by  the  silver  quays 

Polished  their  guns  and  waited  for  the  dawn. 

But  hour  by  hour  that  night  grew  deeper.     Spain 
Watched,  cloud  by  cloud,  her  huge  Armadas  grow, 
Watched,  tower  by  tower,  and  zone  by  zone,  her  fleets 
Grapple  the  sky  with  a  hundred  hands  and  drag 
Whole  sea-horizons  into  her  menacing  ranks, 
Joining  her  powers  to  the  fierce  night,  while  Philip 
Still  strove,  with  many  a  crafty  word,  to  lull 
The  fears  of  Gloriana,  till  his  plots 


368  DRAKE 

Were  ripe,  his  armaments  complete;  and  still 

Great  Gloriana  took  her  woman's  way, 

Preferring  ever  tortuous  intrigue 

To  battle,  since  the  stakes  had  grown  so  great; 

Now,  more  than  ever,  hoping  against  hope 

To  find  some  subtler  means  of  victory; 

Yet  not  without  swift  impulses  to  strike, 

Swiftly  recalled.     Blind,  yet  not  blind,  she  smiled 

On  Mary  of  Scotland  waiting  for  her  throne, 

A  throne  with  many  a  strange  dark  tremor  thrilled 

Now  as  the  rumoured  murderous  mines  below 

Converged  towards  it,  mine  and  countermine, 

Till  the  live  earth  was  honeycombed  with  death. 

Still  with  her  agate  smile,  still  she  delayed, 

Holding  her  pirate  admiral  in  the  leash 

Till  Walsingham,  nay,  even  the  hunchback  Burleigh, 

That  crafty  king  of  statesmen,  seeing  at  last 

The  inevitable  thunder-crash  at  hand, 

Grew  heart-sick  with  delay  and  ached  to  shatter 

The  tense  tremendous  hush  that  seemed  to  oppress 

All  hearts,  compress  all  brows,  load  the  broad  night 

With  more  than  mortal  menace. 

Only  once 
The  night  was  traversed  with  one  lightning  flash, 
One  rapier  stroke  from  England,  at  the  heart 
Of  Spain,  as  swiftly  parried,  yet  no  less 
A  fiery  challenge;  for  Philip's  hate  and  scorn 
Growing  with  his  Armada's  growth,  he  lured 
With  promises  of  just  and  friendly  trade 
A  fleet  of  English  corn-ships  to  relieve 
His  famine-stricken  coast.     There  as  they  lay 
Within  his  ports  he  seized  them,  one  and  all, 
To  fill  the  Armada's  maw. 

Whereat  the  Queen, 
Passive  so  long,  summoned  great  Walsingham, 
And,  still  averse  from  open  war,  despite 
The  battle-hunger  burning  in  his  eyes, 
With  one  strange  swift  sharp  agate  smile  she  hissed, 
"Unchain  El  Draque!" 


DRAKE  369 

A  lightning  flash  indeed 
Was  this;  for  he  whose  little  Golden  Hynde 
With  scarce  a  score  of  seamen  late  had  scourged 
The  Spanish  Main;  he  whose  piratic  neck 
Scarcely  the  Queen's  most  wily  statecraft  saved 
From  Spain's  revenge:  he,  privateer  to  the  eyes 
Of  Spain,  but  England  to  all  English  hearts, 
Gathered  together,  in  all  good  jollity, 
All  help  and  furtherance  himself  could  wish, 
Before  that  moon  was  out,  a  pirate  fleet 
Whereof  the  like  old  ocean  had  not  seen — 
Eighteen  swift  cruisers,  two  great  battleships, 
With  pinnaces  and  store-ships  and  a  force 
Of  nigh  three  thousand  men,  wherewith  to  singe 
The  beard  o'  the  King  of  Spain. 

By  night  they  gathered 
In  marvellous  wind-whipt  inns  nigh  Plymouth  Sound, 
Not  secretly  as,  ere  the  Golden  Hynde 
Burst  thro'  the  West,  that  small  adventurous  crew 
Gathered  beside  the  Thames,  tossing  the  phrase 
"Pieces  of  eight"  from  mouth  to  mouth,  and  singing 
Great  songs  of  the  rich  Indies,  and  those  tall 
Enchanted  galleons,  red  with  blood  and  gold, 
Superb  with  rubies,  glorious  as  clouds, 
Clouds  in  the  sun,  with  mighty  press  of  sail 
Dragging  the  sunset  out  of  the  unknown  world, 
And  staining  all  the  grey  old  seas  of  Time 
With  rich  romance;  but  these,  though  privateers, 
Or  secret  knights  on  Gloriana's  quest, 
Recked  not  if  round  the  glowing  magic  door 
Of  every  inn  the  townsfolk  grouped  to  hear 
The  storm-scarred  seamen  toasting  Francis  Drake, 
Nor  heeded  what  blithe  urchin  faces  pressed 
On  each  red-curtained  magic  casement,  bright 
With  wild  reflection  of  the  fires  within, 
The  fires,  the  glasses,  and  the  singing  lips 
Lifting  defiance  to  the  powers  of  Spain. 


24 


370  DRAKE 

SONG 


Sing  we  the  Rose, 

The  flower  of  flowers  most  glorious? 
Never  a  storm  that  blows 

Across  our  English  sea, 
But  its  heart  breaks  out  wi'  the  Rose 

On  England's  flag  victorious, 
The  triumphing  flag  that  flows 

Thro'  the  heavens  of  Liberty. 


Sing  we  the  Rose, 

The  flower  of  flowers  most  beautiful ! 
Until  the  world  shall  end 

She  blossometh  year  by  year, 
Red  with  the  blood  that  flows 

For  England's  sake,  most  dutiful, 
Wherefore  now  we  bend 

Our  hearts  and  knees  to  her. 


Sing  we  the  Rose, 

The  flower,  the  flower  of  war  it  is, 
Where  deep  i'  the  midnight  gloom 

Its  waves  are  the  waves  of  the  sea, 
And  the  glare  of  battle  grows, 

And  red  over  hulk  and  spar  it  is, 
Till  the  grim  black  broadsides  bloom 

With  our  Rose  of  Victory. 


Sing  we  the  Rose, 

The  flower,  the  flower  of  love  it  is, 
Which  lovers  aye  shall  sing 

And  nightingales  proclaim; 
For  0,  the  heaven  that  glows, 

That  glows  and  burns  above  it  is 
Freedom's  perpetual  Spring, 

Our  England's  faithful  fame. 


DRAKE  371 

Sing  we  the  Rose, 

That  Eastward  still  shall  spread  for  us 
Upon  the  dawn's  bright  breast, 

Red  leaves  wi'  the  foam  impearled; 
And  onward  ever  flows 

Till  eventide  make  red  for  us 
A  Rose  that  sinks  i'  the  West 

And  surges  round  the  world; 
Sing  we  the  Rose! 

One  night  as,  with  his  great  vice-admiral, 

Frobisher,  his  rear-admiral,  Francis  Knollys, 

And  Thomas  Fenner,  his  flag-captain,  Drake 

Took  counsel  at  his  tavern,  there  came  a  knock, 

The  door  opened,  and  cold  as  from  the  sea 

The  gloom  rushed  in,  and  there  against  the  night, 

Clad  as  it  seemed  with  wind  and  cloud  and  rain, 

Glittered  a  courtier  whom  by  face  and  form 

All  knew  for  the  age's  brilliant  paladin, 

Sidney,  the  king  of  courtesy,  a  star 

Of  chivalry.     The  seamen  stared  at  him, 

Each  with  a  hand  upon  the  red-lined  chart 

Outspread  before  them.     Then  all  stared  at  Drake, 

Who  crouched  like  a  great  bloodhound  o'er  the  table, 

And  rose  with  a  strange  light  burning  in  his  eyes; 

For  he  remembered  how,  three  years  agone, 

That  other  courtier  came,  with  words  and  smiles 

Copied  from  Sidney's  self;  and  in  his  ears 

Rang  once  again  the  sound  of  the  two-edged  sword 

Upon  the  desolate  Patagonian  shore 

Beneath  Magellan's  gallows.     With  a  voice 

So  harsh  himself  scarce  knew  it,  he  desired 

This  fair  new  courtier's  errand.     With  grim  eyes 

He  scanned  the  silken  knight  from  head  to  foot, 

While  Sidney,  smiling  graciously,  besought 

Some  place  in  their  adventure.     Drake's  clenched  fist 

Crashed  down  on  the  old  oak  table  like  a  rock, 

Splintering  the  wood  and  dashing  his  rough  wrist 

With  blood,  as  he  thundered,  "By  the  living  God, 

No!     We've  no  room  for  courtiers,  now!     We  leave 

All  that  to  Spain." 

Whereat,  seeing  Sidney  stood 


372  DRAKE 

Amazed,  Drake,  drawing  nearer,  said,  "You  ask 

More  than  you  dream :  I  know  you  for  a  knight 

Most  perfect  and  most  gentle,  yea,  a  man 

Ready  to  die  on  any  battle-field 

To  save  a  wounded  friend"  (even  so  said  Drake, 

Not  knowing  how  indeed  this  knight  would  die), 

Then  fiercely  he  outstretched  his  bleeding  hand 

And  pointed  through  the  door  to  where  the  gloom 

Glimmered  with  bursting  spray,  and  the  thick  night 

Was  all  one  wandering  thunder  of  hidden  seas 

Rolling  out  of  Eternity:  "You'll  find 

No  purple  fields  of  Arcady  out  there, 

No  shepherds  piping  in  those  boisterous  valleys, 

No  sheep  among  those  roaring  mountain-tops, 

No  lists  of  feudal  chivalry.     I've  heard 

That  voice  cry  death  to  courtiers.     'Tis  God's  voice. 

Take  you  the  word  of  one  who  has  occupied 

His  business  in  great  waters.     There's  no  room, 

Meaning,  or  reason,  office,  or  place,  or  name 

For  courtiers  on  the  sea.     Does  the  sea  flatter? 

You  cannot  bribe  it,  torture  it,  or  tame  it! 

Its  laws  are  those  of  the  Juggernaut  universe, 

Remorseless — listen  to  that!" — a  mighty  wave 

Broke  thundering  down  the  coast;  "your  hands  are  white, 

Your  rapier  jewelled,  can  you  grapple  that? 

What  part  have  you  in  all  its  flaming  wa}rs? 

What  share  in  its  fierce  gloom?     Has  your  heart  brokea 

As  those  waves  break  out  there?     Can  you  lie  down 

And  sleep,  as  a  lion-cub  by  the  old  lion, 

When  it  shakes  its  mane  out  over  you  to  hide  you, 

And  lean  out  with  the  dawn  as  I  have  done? 

These  are  big  words;  but,  see,  my  hand  is  red: 

You  cannot  torture  me,  I  have  borne  all  that; 

And  so  I  have  some  kinship  with  the  sea, 

Some  sort  of  wild  alliance  with  its  storms, 

Its  exultations,  ay,  and  its  great  wrath 

At  last,  and  power  upon  them.     'Tis  the  worse 

For  Spain.     Be  counselled  well:  come  not  between 

My  sea  and  its  rich  vengeance." 

Silently, 
Bowing  his  head,  Sidney  withdrew.     But  Drake, 
So  fiercely  the  old  grief  rankled  in  his  heart, 


DRAKE  373 

Summoned  his  swiftest  horseman,  bidding  him  ride, 

Ride  like  the  wind  through  the  night,  straight  to  the  Queen, 

Praying  she  would  most  instantly  recall 

Her  truant  courtier.     Nay,  to  make  all  sure, 

Drake  sent  a  gang  of  seamen  out  to  crouch 

Ambushed  in  woody  hollows  nigh  the  road, 

Under  the  sailing  moon,  there  to  waylay 

The  Queen's  reply,  that  she  might  never  know 

It  reached  him,  if  it  proved  against  his  will. 


And  swiftly  came  that  truant's  stern  recall ; 
But  Drake,  in  hourly  dread  of  some  new  change 
In  Gloriana's  mood,  slept  not  by  night 
Or  day,  till  out  of  roaring  Plymouth  Sound 
The  pirate  fleet  swept  to  the  wind-swept  main, 
And  took  the  wind  and  shook  out  all  its  sails. 
Then  with  the  unfettered  sea  he  mixed  his  soul 
In  great  rejoicing  union,  while  the  ships 
Crashing  and  soaring  o'er  the  heart-free  waves 
Drave  ever  straight  for  Spain. 

Water  and  food 
They  lacked;  but  the  fierce  fever  of  his  mind 
To  sail  from  Plymouth  ere  the  Queen's  will  changed 
Had  left  no  time  for  these.     Right  on  he  drave, 
Determining,  though  the  Queen's  old  officers 
Beneath  him  stood  appalled,  to  take  in  stores 
Of  all  he  needed,  water,  powder,  food, 
By  plunder  of  Spain  herself.     In  Vigo  bay, 
Close  to  Bayona  town,  under  the  cliffs 
Of  Spain's  world-wide  and  thunder-fraught  prestige 
He  anchored,  with  the  old  sea-touch  that  wakes 
Our  England  still.     There,  in  the  tingling  ears 
Of  the  world  he  cried,  En  garde!  to  the  King  of  Spain. 
There,  ordering  out  his  pinnaces  in  force, 
While  a  great  storm,  as  if  he  held  indeed 
Heaven's  batteries  in  reserve,  growled  o'er  the  sea, 
He  landed.     Ere  one  cumbrous  limb  of  all 
The  monstrous  armaments  of  Spain  could  move 
His  ships  were  stored;  and  ere  the  sword  of  Spain 
Stirred  in  its  crusted  sheath,  Bayona  town 


374  DRAKE 

Beheld  an  empty  sea;  for  like  a  dream 
The  pirate  fleet  had  vanished,  none  knew  whither. 
But,  in  its  visible  stead,  invisible  fear 
Filled  the  vast  rondure  of  the  sea  and  sky- 
As  with  the  omnipresent  soul  of  Drake. 
For  when  Spain  saw  the  small  black  anchored  fleet 
Ride  in  her  bays,  the  sight  set  bounds  to  fear. 
She  knew  at  least  the  ships  were  oak,  the  guns 
Of  common  range:  nor  did  she  dream  e'en  Drake 
Could  sail  two  seas  at  once.     Now  all  her  coasts 
Heard  him  all  night  in  every  bursting  wave, 
His  topsails  gleamed  in  every  moonlit  cloud; 
His  battle-lanthorn  glittered  in  the  stars 
That  hung  the  low  horizon.     He  became 
A  universal  menace;  yet  there  followed 
No  sight  or  sound  of  him,  unless  the  sea 
Were  that  grim  soul  incarnate.     Did  it  not  roar 
His  great  commands?     The  very  spray  that  lashed 
The  cheeks  of  Spanish  seamen  lashed  their  hearts 
To  helpless  hatred  of  him.     The  wind  sang 
El  Draque  across  the  rattling  blocks  and  sheets 
When  storms  perplexed  them;  and  when  ships  went  down, 
As  under  the  fury  of  his  onsetting  battle, 
The  drowning  sailors  cursed  him  while  they  sank. 

Suddenly  a  rumour  shook  the  Spanish  Court, 

He  has  gone  once  more  to  the  Indies.     Santa  Cruz, 

High  Admiral  of  Spain,  the  most  renowned 

Captain  in  Europe,  clamoured  for  a  fleet 

Of  forty  sail  instantly  to  pursue. 

For  unto  him  whose  little  Golden  Hynde 

Was  weapon  enough,  now  leading  such  a  squadron, 

The  West  Indies,  the  whole  Pacific  coast, 

And  the  whole  Spanish  Main,  lay  at  his  mercy. 

And  onward  over  the  great  grey  gleaming  sea 
Swept  like  a  thunder-cloud  the  pirate  fleet 
With  vengeance  in  its  heart.     Five  years  agone, 
Young  Hawkins,  in  the  Cape  Verde  Islands,  met — 
At  Santiago — with  such  treachery 
As  Drake  burned  to  requite,  and  from  that  hour 


DRAKE  375 

Was  Santiago  doomed.     His  chance  had  come; 

Drake  swooped  upon  it,  plundered  it,  and  was  gone, 

Leaving  the  treacherous  isle  a  desolate  heap 

Of  smoking  ashes  in  the  leaden  sea, 

While  onward  all  those  pirate  bowsprits  plunged 

Into  the  golden  West,  across  the  broad 

Atlantic  once  again;  "For  I  will  show," 

Said  Drake,  "that  Englishmen  henceforth  will  sail 

Old  ocean  where  they  will."     Onward  they  surged, 

And  the  great  glittering  crested  majestic  waves 

Jubilantly  rushed  up  to  meet  the  keels, 

And  there  was  nought  around  them  but  the  giey 

Ruin  and  roar  of  the  huge  Atlantic  seas, 

Grey  mounded  seas,  pursuing  and  pursued, 

That  fly,  hounded  and  hounding  on  for  ever, 

From  empty  marge  to  marge  of  the  grey  sky. 

Over  the  wandering  wilderness  of  foam, 

Onward,  through  storm  and  death,  Drake  swept;  for  now 

Once  more  a  fell  plague  gripped  the  tossing  ships, 

And  not  by  twos  and  threes  as  heretofore 

His  crews  were  minished;  but  in  three  black  days 

Three  hundred  seamen  in  their  shotted  shrouds 

Were  cast  into  the  deep.     Onward  he  swept, 

Implacably,  having  in  mind  to  strike 

Spain  in  the  throat  at  St.  Domingo,  port 

Of  Hispaniola,  a  city  of  far  renown, 

A  jewel  on  the  shores  of  old  romance, 

Palm-shadowed,  gated  with  immortal  gold, 

Queen  city  of  Spain's  dominions  over  sea, 

And  guarded  by  great  guns.     Out  of  the  dawn 

The  pirate  ships  came  leaping,  grim  and  black, 

And  ere  the  Spaniards  were  awake,  the  flag 

Of  England  floated  from  their  topmost  tower. 

But  since  he  had  not  troops  enough  to  hold 

So  great  a  city,  Drake  entrenched  his  men 

Within  the  Plaza  and  held  the  batteries. 

Thence  he  demanded  ransom,  and  sent  out 

A  boy  with  flag  of  truce.     The  boy's  return 

Drake  waited  long.     Under  a  sheltering  palm 

He  stood,  watching  the  enemies'  camp,  and  lo, 

Along  the  hot  white  purple-shadowed  road 


376  DRAKE 

Tow'rds  him,  a  crawling  shape  writhed  through  the  dust 

Up  to  his  feet,  a  shape  besmeared  with  blood, 

A  shape  that  held  the  stumps  up  of  its  wrists 

And  moaned,  an  eyeless  thing,  a  naked  rag 

Of  flesh  obscenely  mangled,  a  small  face 

Hideously  puckered,  shrivelled  like  a  monkey's 

With  lips  drawn  backward  from  its  teeth. 

"Speak,  speak, 
In  God's  name,  speak,  what  art  thou?"  whispered  Drake, 
And  a  sharp  cry  came,  answering  his  dread, 
A  cry  as  of  a  sea-bird  in  the  wind 
Desolately  astray  from  all  earth's  shores, 
"Captain,  I  am  thy  boy,  only  thy  boy! 
See,  see,  my  captain,  see  what  they  have  done! 
•Captain,  I  only  bore  the  flag;  I  only " 


■"0,  lad,  lad,  lad,"  moaned  Drake,  and,  stooping,  strove 
To  pillow  the  mangled  head  upon  his  arm. 
"What  have  they  done  to  thee,  what  have  they  done?" 
And  at  the  touch  the  boy  screamed,  once,  and  died. 


Then  like  a  savage  sea  with  arms  uplift 

To  heaven  the  wrath  of  Drake  blazed  thundering, 

"Eternal  God,  be  this  the  doom  of  Spain! 

Henceforward  have  no  pity.     Send  the  strength 

Of  Thy  great  seas  into  my  soul  that  I 

May  devastate  this  empire,  this  red  hell 

They  make  of  Thy  good  earth." 

His  men  drew  round, 
Staring  in  horror  at  the  silent  shape 
That  daubed  his  feet.     Like  a  cold  wind 
His  words  went  through  their  flesh: 

"This  is  the  lad 
That  bore  our  flag  of  truce.     This  hath  Spain  done. 
Look  well  upon  it,  draw  the  smoke  of  the  blood 
Up  into  your  nostrils,  my  companions, 
And  down  into  your  souls.     This  makes  an  end 
For  Spain !     Bring  forth  the  Spanish  prisoners 
And  let  me  look  on  them." 


DRAKE  377 

Forth  they  were  brought, 
A  swarthy  gorgeous  band  of  soldiers,  priests, 
And  sailors,  hedged  between  two  sturdy  files 
Of  British  tars  with  naked  cutlasses. 
Close  up  to  Drake  they  halted,  under  the  palm, 
Gay  smiling  prisoners,  for  they  thought  their  friends 
Had  ransomed  them.     Then  they  looked  up  and  met 
A  glance  that  swept  athwart  them  like  a  sword, 
Making  the  blood  strain  back  from  their  blanched  faces 
Into  their  quivering  hearts,  with  unknown  dread, 
As  that  accuser  pointed  to  the  shape 
Before  his  feet. 

"Dogs,  will  ye  lap  his  blood 
Before  ye  die?    Make  haste;  for  it  grows  cold! 
Ye  will  not,  will  not  even  dabble  your  hands 
In  that  red  puddle  of  flesh,  what?    Are  ye  Spaniards? 
Come,  come,  I'll  look  at  you,  perchance  there's  one 
That's  but  a  demi-devil  and  holds  you  back." 
And  with  the  word  Drake  stepped  among  their  ranks 
And  read  each  face  among  the  swarthy  crew — 
The  gorgeous  soldiers,  ringleted  sailors,  priests 
With  rosary  and  cross,  a  slender  page 
In  scarlet  with  a  cloud  of  golden  hair, 
And  two  rope-girdled  friars. 

The  slim  page 
Drake  drew  before  the  throng.     "You  are  young,"  he  said, 
"Go;  take  this  message  to  the  camp  of  Spain: 
Tell  them  I  have  a  hunger  in  my  soul 
To  look  upon  the  murderers  of  this  boy, 
To  see  what  eyes  they  have,  what  manner  of  mouths, 
To  touch  them  and  to  take  their  hands  in  mine, 
And  draw  them  close  to  me  and  smile  upon  them 
Until  they  know  my  soul  as  I  know  theirs, 
And  they  grovel  in  the  dust  and  grope  for  mercy. 
Say  that,  until  I  get  them,  every  day 
I'll  hang  two  Spaniards  though  I  dispeople 
The  Spanish  Main.     Tell  them  that,  every  day, 
I'll  burn  a  portion  of  their  city  down, 
Then  find  another  city  and  burn  that, 
And  then  burn  others  till  I  burn  away 
Their  empire  from  the  world,  ay,  till  I  reach 


378  DRAKE 

The  imperial  throne  of  Philip  with  my  fires, 
And  send  it  shrieking  down  to  burn  in  hell 
For  ever.     Go!" 

Then  Drake  turned  once  again 
To  face  the  Spanish  prisoners.     With  a  voice 
Cold  as  the  passionless  utterance  of  Fate 
His  grim  command  went  forth.     "Now,  provost-marshal, 
Begin  with  yon  two  friars,  in  whose  faces 
Chined  like  singed  swine,  and  ej^ed  with  the  spent  coals 
Of  filthy  living,  sweats  the  glory  of  Spain. 
Strip  off  their  leprous  rags 

And  twist  their  ropes  around  their  throats  and  hang  them 
High  over  the  Spanish  camp  for  all  to  see. 
At  dawn  I'll  choose  two  more." 


BOOK  X 


Across  the  Atlantic 
Great  rumours  rushed  as  of  a  mighty  wind, 
The  wind  of  the  spirit  of  Drake.     But  who  shall  tell 
In  this  cold  age  the  power  that  he  became 
Who  drew  the  universe  within  his  soul 
And  moved  with  cosmic  forces?     Though  the  deep 
Divided  it  from  Drake,  the  gorgeous  court 
Of  Philip  shuddered  away  from  the  streaming  coasts 
As  a  wind-cuffed  field  of  golden  wheat.     The  King, 
Bidding  his  guests  to  a  feast  in  his  own  ship 
On  that  wind-darkened  sea,  was  made  a  mock, 
As  one  by  one  his  ladies  proffered  excuse 
For  fear  of  That  beyond.     Round  Europe  now 
Ballad  and  story  told  how  in  the  cabin 
Of  Francis  Drake  there  hung  a  magic  glass 
Wherein  he  saw  the  fleets  of  everjr  foe 
And  all  that  passed  aboard  them.     Rome  herself, 
Perplexed  that  this  proud  heretic  should  prevail, 
Fostered  a  darker  dream,  that  Drake  had  bought, 
Like  old  Norse  wizards,  power  to  loose  or  bind 
The  winds  at  will. 


DRAKE  379 

And  now  a  wilder  talc 
Flashed  o'er  the  deep — of  a  distant  blood-red  dawn 
O'er  San  Domingo,  where  the  embattled  troops 
Of  Spain  and  Drake  were  met — but  not  in  war — 
Met  in  the  dawn,  by  his  compelling  will, 
To  offer  up  a  sacrifice.     Yea,  there 
Between  the  hosts,  the  hands  of  Spain  herself 
Slaughtered  the  Spanish  murderers  of  the  boy 
Who  had  borne  Drake's  flag  of  truce;  offered  them  up 
As  a  blood-offering  and  an  expiation 
Lest  Drake,  with  that  dread  alchemy  of  his  soul, 
Should  e'en  transmute  the  dust  beneath  their  feet 
To  one  same  substance  with  the  place  of  pain 
And  whelm  them  suddenly  in  the  eternal  fires. 
Rumour  on  rumour  rushed  across  the  sea, 
Large  mockeries,  and  one  most  bitter  of  all, 
Wormwood  to  Philip,  of  how  Drake  had  stood 
I'  the  governor's  house  at  San  Domingo,  and  seen 
A  mighty  scutcheon  of  the  King  of  Spain 
Wliereon  was  painted  the  terrestrial  globe, 
And  on  the  globe  a  mighty  steed  in  act 
To  spring  into  the  heavens,  and  from  its  mouth 
Streaming  like  smoke  a  scroll,  and  on  the  scroll 
Three  words  of  flame  and  fury — Non  sufficit 
Orbis — of  how  Drake  and  his  seamen  stood 
Gazing  upon  it,  and  could  not  forbear 
From  summoning  the  Spaniards  to  expound 
Its  meaning,  whereupon  a  hurricane  roar 
Of  mirth  burst  from  those  bearded  British  lips, 
And  that  immortal  laughter  shook  the  world. 


So,  while  the  imperial  warrior  eyes  of  Spain 
Watched,  every  hour,  her  vast  Armada  grow 
Readier  to  launch  and  shatter  with  one  stroke 
Our  island's  frail  defence,  fear  gripped  her  still, 
For  there  came  sounds  across  the  heaving  sea 
Of  secret  springs  unsealed,  forces  unchained, 
A  mustering  of  deep  elemental  powers, 
A  sound  as  of  the  burgeoning  of  boughs 
In  universal  April  and  dead  hearts 


380  DRAKE 

Uprising  from  their  tombs;  a  mighty  cry 

Of  resurrection,  surging  through  the  souls 

Of  all  mankind.     For  now  the  last  wild  tale 

Swept  like  another  dawn  across  the  deep; 

And,  in  that  dawn,  men  saw  the  slaves  of  Spain, 

The  mutilated  negroes  of  the  mines, 

With  gaunt  backs  wealed  and  branded,  scarred  and  seared 

By  whip  and  iron,  in  Spain's  brute  lust  for  gold, 

Saw  them,  at  Drake's  great  liberating  word, 

Burst  from  their  chains,  erect,  uplifting  hands 

Of  rapture  to  the  glad  new  light  that  then, 

Then  first,  began  to  struggle  thro'  the  clouds 

And  crown  all  manhood  with  a  sacred  crown 

August — a  light  which,  though  from  age  to  age 

Clouds  may  obscure  it,  grows  and  still  shall  grow, 

Until  that  Kingdom  come,  that  grand  Communion, 

That  Commonweal,  that  Empire,  which  still  draws 

Nigher  with  every  hour,  that  Federation, 

That  turning  of  the  wasteful  strength  of  war 

To  accomplish  large  and  fruitful  tasks  of  peace, 

That  gathering  up  of  one  another's  loads 

Whereby  the  weak  are  strengthened  and  the  strong 

Made  stronger  in  the  increasing  good  of  all. 

Then,  suddenly,  it  seemed,  as  he  had  gone, 

A  ship  came  stealing  into  Plymouth  Sound 

And  Drake  was  home  again,  but  not  to  rest; 

For  scarce  had  he  cast  anchor  ere  the  road 

To  London  rang  beneath  the  flying  hoofs 

That  bore  his  brief  despatch  to  Burleigh,  saying — 

"We  have  missed  the  Plate  Fleet  by  but  twelve  hours'  sail, 

The  reason  being  best  known  to  God.     No  less 

We  have  given  a  cooling  to  the  King  of  Spain. 

There  is  a  great  gap  opened  which,  methinks, 

Is  little  to  his  liking.     We  have  sacked 

The  towns  of  his  chief  Indies,  burnt  their  ships, 

Captured  great  store  of  gold  and  precious  stones, 

Three  hundred  pieces  of  artillery, 

The  more  part  brass.     Our  loss  is  heavy  indeed, 

Under  the  hand  of  God,  eight  hundred  men, 

Three  parts  of  them  by  sickness.     Captain  Moone. 

My  trusty  old  companion,  he  that  struck 


DRAKE  381 

The  first  blow  in  the  South  Seas  at  a  Spaniard, 

Died  of  a  grievous  wound  at  Cartagena. 

My  fleet  and  I  are  ready  to  strike  again 

At  once,  where'er  the  Queen  and  England  please. 

I  pray  for  her  commands,  and  those  with  speed, 

That  I  may  strike  again."     Outside  the  scroll 

These  words  were  writ  once  more — "My  Queen's  commands 

I  much  desire,  your  servant,  Francis  Drake." 

This  terse  despatch  the  hunchback  Burleigh  read 
Thrice  over,  with  the  broad  cliff  of  his  brow 
Bending  among  his  books.     Thrice  he  assayed 
To  steel  himself  with  caution  as  of  old; 
And  thrice,  as  a  glorious  lightning  running  along 
And  flashing  between  those  simple  words,  he  saw 
The  great  new  power  that  lay  at  England's  hand, 
An  ocean-sovereignty,  a  power  unknown 
Before,  but  dawning  now;  a  power  that  swept 
All  earth's  old  plots  and  counterplots  away 
Like  straws;  the  germ  of  an  unmeasured  force 
New-born,  that  laid  the  source  of  Spanish  might 
At  England's  mercy!     Could  that  force  but  grow 
Ere  Spain  should  nip  it,  ere  the  mighty  host 
That  waited  in  the  Netherlands  even  now, 
That  host  of  thirty  thousand  men  encamped 
Round  Antwerp,  under  Parma,  should  embark 
Convoyed  by  that  Invincible  Armada 
To  leap  at  England's  throat!     Thrice  he  assayed 
To  think  of  England's  helplessness,  her  ships 
Little  and  few.     Thrice  he  assayed  to  quench 
With  caution  the  high  furnace  of  his  soul 
Which  Drake  had  kindled.     As  he  read  the  last 
Rough  simple  plea,  I  wait  my  Queen's  commands, 
His  deep  eyes  flashed  with  glorious  tears. 

He  leapt 
To  his  feet  and  cried  aloud,  "Before  my  God, 
I  am  proud,  I  am  very  proud  for  England's  sake! 
This  Drake  is  a  teriible  man  to  the  King  of  Spain." 

And  still,  still,  Gloriana,  brooding  darkly 

On  Mary  of  Scotland's  doom,  who  now  at  last 


382  DRAKE 

Was  plucked  from  out  her  bosom  like  a  snake 

Hissing  of  war  with  France,  a  queenly  snake, 

A  Lilith  in  whose  lovely  gleaming  folds 

And  sexual  bonds  the  judgment  of  mankind 

Writhes  even  yet  half-strangled,  meting  out 

Wild  execrations  on  the  maiden  Queen 

Who  quenched  those  jewelled  eyes  and  mixt  with  dust 

That  white  and  crimson,  who  with  cold  sharp  steel 

In  substance  and  in  spirit,  severed  the  neck 

And  straightened  out  those  glittering  supple  coils 

For  ever;  though  for  evermore  will  men 

Lie  subject  to  the  unforgotten  gleam 

Of  diamond  eyes  and  cruel  crimson  mouth, 

And  curse  the  sword-bright  intellect  that  struck 

Like  lightning  far  through  Europe  and  the  world 

For  England,  when  amid  the  embattled  fury 

Of  world-wide  empires,  England  stood  alone. 

Still  she  held  back  from  war,  still  disavowed 

The  deeds  of  Drake  to  Spain;  and  yet  once  more 

Philip,  resolved  at  last  never  to  swerve 

By  one  digressive  stroke,  one  ell  or  inch 

From  his  own  patient,  sure,  laborious  path, 

Accepted  her  suave  plea,  and  with  all  speed 

Pressed  on  his  huge  emprise  until  it  seemed 

His  coasts  groaned  with  grim  bulks  of  cannonry, 

Thick  loaded  hulks  of  thunder  and  towers  of  doom; 

And,  all  round  Antwerp,  Parma  still  prepared 

To  hurl  such  armies  o'er  the  rolling  sea 

As  in  all  history  hardly  the  earth  herself 

Felt  shake  with  terror  her  own  green  hills  and  plains. 

I  wait  my  Queen's  commands!     Despite  the  plea 

Drged  every  hour  upon  her  with  the  fire 

That  burned  for  action  in  the  soul  of  Drake, 

Still  she  delayed,  till  on  one  darkling  eve 

She  gave  him  audience  in  that  glimmering  room 

Where  first  he  saw  her.     Strangely  sounded  there 

The  seaman's  rough  strong  passion  as  he  poured 

His  heart  before  her,  pleading — "Every  hour 

Is  one  more  victory  lost,"  and  only  heard 

The  bitter  answer — "Nay,  but  every  hour 

Is  a  breath  snatched  from  the  unconquerable 


DRAKE  383 

Doom,  that  awaits  us  if  we  are  forced  to  war. 

Yea,  and  who  knows? — though  Spain  may  forge  a  sword, 

Its  point  is  not  inevitably  bared 

Against  the  breast  of  England!"     As  she  spake, 

The  winds  without  clamoured  with  clash  of  bells, 

There  was  a  gleam  of  torches  and  a  roar — 

Mary,  the  traitress  of  the  North,  is  dead, 

God  save  the  Queen! 

Her  head  bent  down :  she  wept. 
"Pity  me,  friend,  though  I  be  queen,  O  yet 
My  heart  is  woman,  and  I  am  sore  pressed 
On  every  side, — Scotland  and  France  and  Spain 
Beset  me,  and  I  know  not  where  to  turn." 
Even  as  she  spake,  there  came  a  hurried  step 
Into  that  dim  rich  chamber.     Walsingham 
Stood  there,  before  her,  without  ceremony 
Thrusting  a  letter  forth:  "At  last,"  he  cried, 
"Your  Majesty  may  read  the  full  intent 
Of  priestly  Spain.     Here,  plainly  written  out 
Upon  this  paper,  worth  your  kingdom's  crown, 
This  letter,  stolen  by  a  trusty  spy, 
Out  of  the  inmost  chamber  of  the  Pope 
Sixtus  himself,  here  is  your  murder  planned : 
Blame  not  your  Ministers  who  with  such  haste 
Plucked  out  this  viper,  Mary,  from  your  breast! 
Read  here — how,  with  his  thirty  thousand  men, 
The  pick  of  Europe,  Parma  joins  the  Scots, 
While  Ireland,  grasped  in  their  Armada's  clutch, 
And  the  Isle  of  Wight,  against  our  west  and  south 
Become  their  base." 

"Rome,  Rome,  and  Rome  again,, 
And  always  Rome,"  she  muttered;  "even  here 
In  England  hath  she  thousands  yet.     She  hath  struck 
Her  curse  out  with  pontine  finger  at  me, 
Cursed  me  down  and  away  to  the  bottomless  pit. 
Her  shadow  like  the  shadow  of  clouds  or  sails, 
The  shadow  of  that  huge  event  at  hand, 
Darkens  the  seas  already,  and  the  wind 
Is  on  my  cheek  that  shakes  my  kingdom  down. 
She  hath  thousands  here  in  England,  born  and  bred 
Englishmen.     They  will  stand  by  Rome!" 


384  DRAKE 

"'Fore  God," 
Cried  Walsingham,  "my  Queen,  you  do  them  wrong! 
There  is  another  Rome — not  this  of  Spain 
Which  lurks  to  pluck  the  world  back  into  darkness 
And  stab  it  there  for  gold.     There  is  a  City 
Whose  eyes  are  tow'rd  the  morning;  on  whose  heights 
Blazes  the  Cross  of  Christ  above  the  world; 
A  Rome  that  shall  wage  warfare  yet  for  God 
In  the  dark  days  to  come,  a  Rome  whose  thought 
Shall  march  with  our  humanity  and  be  proud 
To  cast  old  creeds  like  seed  into  the  ground, 
Watch  the  strange  shoots  and  foster  the  new  flower 
Of  faiths  we  know  not  yet.     Is  this  a  dream? 
I  speak  as  one  by  knighthood  bound  to  speak; 
For  even  this  day — and  my  heart  burns  with  it — 
I  heard  the  Catholic  gentlemen  of  England 
Speaking  in  grave  assembly.     At  one  breath 
Of  peril  to  our  island,  why,  their  swords 
Leapt  from  their  scabbards,  and  their  cry  went  up 
To  split  the  heavens — God  save  our  English  Queen! " 
Even  as  he  spake  there  passed  the  rushing  gleam 
Of  torches  once  again,  and  as  they  stood 
Silently  listening,  all  the  winds  ran  wild 
With  clamouring  bells,  and  a  great  cry  went  up — 
God  save  Elizabeth,  our  English  Queen! 

"I'll  vouch  for  some  two  hundred  Catholic  throats 

Among  that  thousand,"  whispered  Walsingham 

Eagerly,  with  his  eyes  on  the  Queen's  face. 

Then,  seeing  it  brighten,  fervently  he  cried, 

Pressing  the  swift  advantage  home,  "0,  Madam, 

The  heart  of  England  now  is  all  on  fire! 

We  are  one  people,  as  we  have  not  been 

In  all  our  history,  all  prepared  to  die 

Around  your  throne.     Madam,  you  are  beloved 

As  never  yet  was  English  king  or  queen!" 

She  looked  at  him,  the  tears  in  her  keen  eyes 

Glittered — "And  I  am  ve^  proud,"  she  said, 

"But  if  our  enemies  command  the  world, 

And  we  have  one  small  island  and  no  more   ..." 

She  ceased;  and  Drake,  in  a  strange  voice,  hoarse  and  low, 


DRAKE  385 

Trembling  with  passion  deeper  than  all  speech, 
Cried  out — "No  more  than  the  great  ocean-sea 
Which  makes  the  enemies'  coast  our  frontier  now; 
No  more  than  that  great  Empire  of  the  deep 
Which  rolls  from  Pole  to  Pole,  washing  the  world 
With  thunder,  that  great  Empire  whose  command 
This  day  is  yours  to  take.     Hear  me,  my  Queen, 
This  is  a  dream,  a  new  dream,  but  a  true; 
For  mightier  days  are  dawning  on  the  world 
Than  heart  of  man  hath  known.     If  England  hold 
The  sea,  she  holds  the  hundred  thousand  gates 
That  open  to  futurity.     She  holds 
The  highway  of  all  ages.     Argosies 
Of  unknown  glory  set  their  sails  this  day 
For  England  out  of  ports  beyond  the  stars. 
Ay,  on  the  sacred  seas  we  ne'er  shall  know 
They  hoist  their  sails  this  day  by  peaceful  quays, 
Great  gleaming  wharves  in  the  perfect  Cityof  God, 
If  she  but  claim  her  heritage." 

He  ceased; 
And  the  deep  dream  of  that  new  realm  the  sea, 
Through  all  the  soul  of  Gloriana  surged, 
A  moment,  then  with  splendid  eyes  that  filled 
With  fire  of  sunsets  far  away,  she  cried 
(Faith  making  her  a  child,  yet  queenlier  still) 
"Yea,  claim  it  thou  for  me!" 

A  moment  there 
Trembling  she  stood.     Then,  once  again,  there  passed 
A  rush  of  torches  through  the  gloom  without, 
And  a  great  cry  "God  save  Elizabeth, 
God  save  our  English  Queen! " 

"Yea  go,  then,  go,  " 
She  said,  "God  speed  you  now,  Sir  Francis  Drake, 
Not  as  a  privateer,  but  with  full  powers, 
My  Admiral-at-the-Seas!" 

Without  a  word 
Drake  bent  above  her  hand  and,  ere  she  knew  it, 
His  eyes  from  the  dark  doorway  flashed  farewell 
And  he  was  gone.     But  ere  he  leapt  to  saddle 
Walsingham  stood  at  his  stirrup,  muttering  "Ride, 
Ride  now  like  hell  to  Plymouth;  for  the  Queen 

25 


386  DRAKE 

Is  hard  beset,  and  ere  ye  are  out  at  sea 
Her  mood  will  change.     The  friends  of  Spain  will  move 
Earth  and  the  heavens  for  your  recall.    They'll  tempt  her 
With  their  false  baits  of  peace,  though  I  shall  stand 
Here  at  your  back  through  thick  and  thin;  farewell!" 
Fire  flashed  beneath  the  hoofs  and  Drake  was  gone. 

Scarce  had  he  vanished  in  the  night  than  doubt 

Once  more  assailed  the  Queen.     The  death  of  Mary 

Had  brought  e'en  France  against  her.     Walsingham, 

And  Burleigh  himself,  prime  mover  of  that  death, 

Being  held  in  much  disfavour  for  it,  stood 

As  helpless.    Long  ere  Drake  or  human  power, 

They  thought,  could  put  to  sea,  a  courier  sped 

To  Plymouth  bidding  Drake  forbear  to  strike 

At  Spain,  but  keep  to  the  high  seas,  and  lo, 

The  roadstead  glittered  empty.     Drake  was  gone! 

Gone!    Though  the  friends  of  Spain  had  poured  their  gold 

To  thin  his  ranks,  and  every  hour  his  crews 

Deserted,  he  had  laughed — "Let  Spain  buy  scum! 

Next  to  an  honest  seaman  I  love  best 

An  honest  landsman.     What  more  goodly  task 

Than  teaching  brave  men  seamanship?"     He  had  filled 

His  ships  with  soldiers!     Out  in  the  teeth  of  the  gale 

That  raged  against  him  he  had  driven.     In  vain, 

Amid  the  boisterous  laughter  of  the  quays, 

A  pinnace  dashed  in  hot  pursuit  and  met 

A  roaring  breaker  and  came  hurtling  back 

With  oars  and  spars  all  trailing  in  the  foam, 

A  tangled  mass  of  wreckage  and  despair. 

Sky  swept  to  stormy  sky:  no  sail  could  live 

In  that  great  yeast  of  waves;  but  Drake  was  gone! 

Then,  once  again,  across  the  rolling  sea 

Great  rumours  rushed  of  how  he  had  sacked  the  port 

Of  Cadiz  and  had  swept  along  the  coast 

To  Lisbon,  where  the  whole  Armada  lay. 

Had  snapped  up  prizes  under  its  very  nose, 

And  taunted  Santa  Cruz,  High  Admiral 

Of  Spain,  striving  to  draw  him  out  for  fight, 

And  offering,  if  his  course  should  lie  that  way, 


DRAKE  387 

To  convoy  him  to  Britain,  itaunted  him 

So  bitterly  that  for  once,  in  the  world's  eyes, 

A  jest  had  power  to  kill;  for  Santa  Cruz 

Died  with  the  spleen  of  it,  since  he  could  not  move 

Before  the  appointed  season.     Then  there  came 

Flying  back  home,  the  Queen's  old  Admiral 

Borough,  deserting  Drake  and  all  aghast 

At  Drake's  temerity:  "For,"  he  said,  "this  man, 

Thrust  o'er  my  head,  against  all  precedent, 

Bade  me  follow  him  into  harbour  mouths 

A-flame  with  cannon  like  the  jaws  of  death, 

Whereat  I  much  demurred;  and  straightway  Drake 

Clapped  me  in  irons,  me — an  officer 

And  Admiral  of  the  Queen;  and,  though  my  voice 

Was  all  against  it,  plunged  into  the  pit 

Without  me,  left  me  with  some  word  that  burns 

And  rankles  in  me  still,  making  me  fear 

The  man  was  mad,  some  word  of  lonely  seas, 

A  desert  island  and  a  mutineer 

And  dead  Magellan's  gallows.     Sirs,  my  life 

Was  hardly  safe  with  him.     Why,  he  resolved 

To  storm  the  Castle  of  St.  Vincent,  sirs, 

A  castle  on  a  cliff,  grinning  with  guns, 

Well  known  impregnable!     The  Spaniards  fear 

Drake;  but  to  see  him  land  below  it  and  bid 

Surrender,  sirs,  the  strongest  fort  of  Spain 

Without  a  blow,  they  laughed!     And  straightway  he. 

With  all  the  fury  of  Satan,  turned  that  cliff 

To  hell  itself.     He  sent  down  to  the  ships 

For  faggots,  broken  oars,  beams,  bowsprits,  masts, 

And  piled  them  up  against  the  outer  gates, 

Higher  and  higher,  and  fired  them.     There  he  stood 

Amid  the  smoke  and  flame  and  cannon-shot, 

This  Admiral,  like  a  common  seamen,  black 

With  soot,  besmeared  with  blood,  his  naked  arms 

Full  of  great  faggots,  labouring  like  a  giant 

And  roaring  like  Apollyon.     Sirs,  he  is  mad! 

But  did  he  take  it,  say  you?     Yea,  he  took  it, 

The  mightiest  stronghold  on  the  coast  of  Spain, 

Took  it  and  tumbled  all  its  big  brass  guns 

Clattering  over  the  cliffs  into  the  sea. 


388  DRAKE 

But,  sirs,  ye  need  not  raise  a  cheer  so  loud! 
It  is  not  warfare.     'Twas  a  madman's  trick, 
A  devil's!" 

Then  the  rumour  of  a  storm 
That  scattered  the  fleet  of  Drake  to  the  four  winds 
Disturbed  the  heart  of  England,  as  his  ships 
Came  straggling  into  harbour,  one  by  one, 
Saying  they  could  not  find  him.     Then,  at  last, 
When  the  storm  burst  in  its  earth-shaking  might 
Along  our  coasts,  one  night  of  rolling  gloom 
His  cannon  woke  old  Plymouth.     In  he  came 
Across  the  thunder  and  lightning  of  the  sea 
With  his  grim  ship  of  war  and,  close  behind, 
A  shadow  like  a  mountain  or  a  cloud 
Torn  from  the  heaven-high  panoplies  of  Spain, 
A  captured  galleon  loomed,  and  round  her  prow 
A  blazoned  scroll,  whence  (as  she  neared  the  quays 
Which  many  a  lanthorn  swung  from  brawny  fist 
Yellowed)  the  sudden  crimson  of  her  name 
San  Filippe  flashed  o'er  the  white  sea  of  faces, 
And  a  rending  shout  went  skyward  that  outroared 
The  blanching  breakers — "  "Pis  the  heart  of  Spain! 
The  great  San  Filippe!"     Overhead  she  towered, 
The  mightiest  ship  afloat;  and  in  her  hold 
The  riches  of  a  continent,  a  prize 
Greater  than  earth  had  ever  known;  for  there 
Not  only  ruby  and  pearl  like  ocean-beaches 
Heaped  on  some  wizard  coast  in  that  dim  hull 
Blazed  to  the  lanthorn-light;  not  only  gold 
Gleamed,  though  of  gold  a  million  would  not  buy 
Her  store;  but  in  her  cabin  lay  the  charts 
And  secrets  of  the  wild  unwhispered  wealth 
Of  India,  secrets  that  splashed  London  wharves 
With  coloured  dreams  and  made  her  misty  streets 
Flame  like  an  Eastern  City  when  the  sun 
Shatters  itself  on  jewelled  domes  and  spills 
Its  crimson  wreckage  thro'  the  silvery  palms. 
And  of  those  dreams  the  far  East  India  quest 
Began :  the  first  foundation-stone  was  laid 
Of  our  great  Indian  Empire,  and  a  star 
Began  to  tremble  on  the  brows  of  England 
That  time  can  never  darken. 


DRAKE  389 

But  now  the  seas 
Darkened  indeed  with  menace;  now  at  last 
The  cold  wind  of  the  black  approaching  wings 
Of  Azrael  crept  across  the  deep :  the  storm 
Throbbed  with  their  thunderous  pulse,  and  ere  that  moon 
Waned,  a  swift  gunboat  foamed  into  the  Sound 
With  word  that  all  the  Invincible  Armada 
Was  hoisting  sail  for  England. 

Even  now, 
Elizabeth,  torn  a  thousand  ways,  withheld 
The  word  for  which  Drake  pleaded  as  for  life, 
That  he  might  meet  them  ere  they  left  their  coasts, 
Meet  them  or  ever  they  reached  the  Channel,  meet  them 
Now,  or — "Too  late!     Too  late!"     At  last  his  voice 
Beat  down  e'en  those  that  blindly  dinned  her  ears 
With  chatter  of  meeting  Spain  on  British  soil; 
And  swiftly  she  commanded  (seeing  once  more 
The  light  that  burned  amid  the  approaching  gloom 
In  Drake's  deep  eyes)  Lord  Howard  of  Effingham, 
High  Admiral  of  England,  straight  to  join  him 
At  Plymouth  Sound.     "How  many  ships  are  wanted?" 
She  asked  him,  thinking  "we  are  few,  indeed!" 
"Give  me  but  sixteen  merchantmen,"  he  said, 
"And  but  four  battleships,  by  the  mercy  of  God, 
I'll  answer  for  the  Armada!"     Out  to  sea 
They  swept,  in  the  teeth  of  a  gale;  but  vainly  Drake 
Strove  to  impart  the  thought  wherewith  his  mind 
Travailed — to  win  command  of  the  ocean-sea 
By  bursting  on  the  fleets  of  Spain  at  once 
Even  as  they  left  their  ports,  not  as  of  old 
To  hover  in  a  vain  dream  of  defence 
Round  fifty  threatened  points  of  British  coast, 
But  Howard,  clinging  to  his  old-world  order, 
Flung  out  his  ships  in  a  loose,  long,  straggling  line 
Across  the  Channel,  waiting,  wary,  alert, 
But  powerless  thus  as  a  string  of  scattered  sea-gulls 
Beating  against  the  storm.     Then,  flying  to  meet  them, 
A  merchantman  brought  terror  down  the  wind, 
With  news  that  she  had  seen  that  monstrous  host 
Stretching  from  sky  to  sky,  great  hulks  of  doom, 
Dragging  death's  midnight  with  them  o'er  the  sea 


390  DRAKE 

Tow'rds  England.     Up  to  Howard's  flag-ship  Drake 
In  his  immortal  battle-ship — Revenge, 
Rushed  thro'  the  foam,  and  thro'  the  swirling  seas 
His  pinnace  dashed  alongside.     On  to  the  decks 
O'  the  tossing  flag-ship,  like  a  very  Viking 
Shaking  the  surf  and  rainbows  of  the  spray 
From  sun-smit  lion-like  mane  and  beard  he  stood 
Before  Lord  Howard  in  the  escutcheoned  poop 
And  poured  his  heart  out  like  the  rending  sea 
In  passionate  wave  on  wave: 

"If  yonder  fleet 
Once  reach  the  Channel,  hardly  the  mercy  of  God 
Saves  England !     I  would  pray  with  my  last  breath, 
Let  us  beat  up  to  windward  of  them  now, 
And  handle  them  before  they  reach  the  Channel." 
"Nay;  but  we  cannot  bare  the  coast,"  cried  Howard, 
"Nor  have  we  stores  of  powder  or  food  enough!" 
"My  lord,"  said  Drake,  with  his  great  arm  outstretched, 
"There  is  food  enough  in  yonder  enemy's  ships, 
And  powder  enough  and  cannon-shot  enough! 
We  must  re-victual  there.    Look!  look!"  he  cried, 
And  pointed  to  the  heavens.     As  for  a  soul 
That  by  sheer  force  of  will  compels  the  world 
To  work  his  bidding,  so  it  seemed  the  wind 
That  blew  against  them  slowly  veered.     The  sails 
Quivered,  the  skies  revolved.     A  northerly  breeze 
Awoke  and  now,  behind  the  British  ships, 
Blew  steadily  tow'rds  the  unseen  host  of  Spain. 
"It  is  the  breath  of  God,"  cried  Drake;  "they  lie 
Wind-bound,  and  we  may  work  our  will  with  them. 
Signal  the  word,  Lord  Howard,  and  drive  down!" 
And  as  a  man  convinced  by  heaven  itself 
Lord  Howard  ordered,  straightway,  the  whole  fleet 
To  advance. 

And  now,  indeed,  as  Drake  foresaw, 
The  Armada  lay,  beyond  the  dim  horizon, 
Wind-bound  and  helpless  in  Corunna  bay, 
At  England's  mercy,  could  her  fleet  but  draw 
Nigh  enough,  with  its  fire-ships  and  great  guns 
To  windward.     Nearer,  nearer,  league  by  league 
The  ships  of  England  came;  till  Ushant  lay 


DRAKE  .391 

Some  seventy  leagues  behind.     Then,  yet  once  more 
The  wind  veered,  straight  against  them.     To  remain 
Beating  against  it  idly  was  to  starve: 
And,  as  a  man  whose  power  upon  the  world 
Fails  for  one  moment  of  exhausted  will, 
Drake,  gathering  up  his  forces  as  he  went 
For  one  more  supreme  effort,  turned  his  ship 
Tow'rds  Plymouth,  and  retreated  with  the  rest. 

There,  while  the  ships  refitted  with  all  haste 

And  axe  and  hammer  rang,  one  golden  eve 

Just  as  the  setting  sun  began  to  fringe 

The  clouds  with  crimson,  and  the  creaming  waves 

Were  one  wild  riot  of  fairy  rainbows,  Drake 

Stood  with  old  comrades  on  the  close-cropped  green 

Of  Plymouth  Hoe,  playing  a  game  of  bowls. 

Far  off  unseen,  a  little  barque,  full-sail, 

Struggled  and  leapt  and  strove  tow'rds  Plymouth  Sound, 

Noteless  as  any  speckled  herring-gull 

Flickering  between  the  white  flakes  of  the  waves. 

A  group  of  schoolboys  with  their  satchels  lay 

Stretched  on  the  green,  gazing  with  great  wide  eyes 

Upon  their  seamen  heroes,  as  like  gods 

Disporting  with  the  battles  of  the  world 

They  loomed,  tossing  black  bowls  like  cannon-balls 

Against  the  rosy  West,  or  lounged  at  ease 

With  faces  olive-dark  against  that  sky 

Laughing,  while  from  the  neighboring  inn  mine  host, 

White  aproned  and  blue-jerkined,  hurried  out 

With  foaming  cups  of  sack,  and  they  drank  deep, 

Tossing  their  heads  back  under  the  golden  clouds 

And  burying  their  bearded  lips.     The  hues 

That  slashed  their  doublets,  for  the  boy's  bright  eyes 

(Even  as  the  gleams  of  Grecian  cloud  or  moon 

Revealed  the  old  gods)  were  here  rich  dusky  streaks 

Of  splendour  from  the  Spanish  Main,  that  shone 

But  to  proclaim  these  heroes.     There  a  boy 

More  bold  crept  nearer  to  a  slouched  hat  thrown 

Upon  the  green,  and  touched  the  silver  plume, 

And  felt  as  if  he  had  touched  a  sunset-isle 

Of  feathery  palms  beyond  a  crimson  sea. 


392  DRAKE 

Another  stared  at  the  blue  rings  of  smoke 

A  storm-scarred  seaman  puffed  from  a  long  pipe 

Primed  with  the  strange  new  herb  they  had  lately  found 

In  far  Virginia.     But  the  little  ship 

Now  plunging  into  Plymouth  Bay  none  saw. 

E'en  when  she  had  anchored  and  her  straining  boat 

Had  touched  the  land,  and  the  boat's  crew  over  the  quays 

Leapt  with  a  shout,  scarce  was  there  one  to  heed. 

A  seaman,  smiling,  swaggered  out  of  the  inn 

Swinging  in  one  brown  hand  a  gleaming  cage 

Wherein  a  big  green  parrot  chattered  and  clung 

Fluttering  against  the  wires.     A  troop  of  girls 

With  arms  linked  paused  to  watch  the  game  of  bowls; 

And  now  they  flocked  around  the  cage,  while  one 

With  rosy  finger  tempted  the  horny  beak 

To  bite.     Close  overhead  a  sea-mew  flashed 

Seaward.     Once,  from  an  open  window,  soft 

Through  trellised  leaves,  not  far  away,  a  voice 

Floated,  a  voice  that  flushed  the  cheek  of  Drake, 

The  voice  of  Bess,  bending  her  glossy  head 

Over  the  broidery  frame,  in  a  quiet  song. 

The  song  ceased.  Still,  with  rainbows  in  their  eyes, 
The  schoolboys  watched  the  bowls  like  cannon-balls 
Roll  from  the  hand  of  gods  along  the  turf. 

Suddenly,  tow'rds  the  green,  a  little  cloud 

Of  seamen,  shouting,  stumbling,  as  they  ran 

Drew  all  eyes  on  them.     The  game  ceased.    A  voice 

Rough  with  the  storms  of  many  an  ocean  roared 

"Drake!     Cap'en  Drake!     The  Armada! 

They  are  in  the  Channel!     We  sighted  them — 

A  line  of  battleships!     We  could  not  see 

An  end  of  them.     They  stretch  from  north  to  south 

Like  a  great  storm  of  clouds,  glinting  with  guns, 

From  sky  to  sky!" 

So,  after  all  his  strife, 
The  wasted  weeks  had  tripped  him,  the  fierce  hours 
Of  pleading  for  the  sea's  command,  great  hours 
And  golden  moments,  all  were  lost.     The  fleet 
Of  Spain  had  won  the  Channel  without  a  blow. 


DRAKE  393 

All  eyes  were  turned  on  Drake,  as  he  stood  there 
A  giant  against  the  sunset  and  the  sea 
Looming,  alone.     Far  off,  the  first  white  star 
Gleamed  in  a  rosy  space  of  heaven.     He  tossed 
A  grim  black  ball  i'  the  lustrous  air  and  laughed, — 
"Come,  lads,"  he  said,  "we've  time  to  finish  the  game  " 


BOOK  XI 

Few  minutes,  and  well  wasted  those,  were  spent 
On  that  great  game  of  bowls;  for  well  knew  Drake 
What  panic  threatened  Plymouth,  since  his  fleet 
Lay  trapped  there  by  the  black  head-wind  that  blew 
Straight  up  the  Sound,  and  Plymouth  town  itself, 
Except  the  ships  won  seaward  ere  the  dawn, 
Lay  at  the  Armada's  mercy.     Never  a  seaman 
Of  all  the  sea-dogs  clustered  on  the  quays, 
And  all  the  captains  clamouring  round  Lord  Howard, 
Hoped  that  one  ship  might  win  to  the  open  sea: 
At  dawn,  they  thought,  the  Armada's  rolling  guns 
To  windward,  in  an  hour,  must  shatter  them, 
Huddled  in  their  red  slaughter-house  like  sheep. 

Now  was  the  great  sun  sunken  and  the  night 

Dark.     Far  to  Westward,  like  the  soul  of  man 

Fighting  blind  nature,  a  wild  flare  of  red 

Upon  some  windy  headland  suddenly  leapt 

And  vanished  flickering  into  the  clouds.     Again 

It  leapt  and  vanished:  then  all  at  once  it  streamed 

Steadily  as  a  crimson  torch  upheld 

By  Titan  hands  to  heaven.     It  was  the  first 

Beacon!     A  sudden  silence  swept  along 

The  seething  quays,  and  in  their  midst  appeared 

Drake. 

Then  the  jubilant  thunder  of  his  voice 
Rolled,  buffeting  the  sea-wind  far  and  nigh, 
And  ere  they  knew  what  power  as  of  a  sea 
Surged  through  them,  his  immortal  battle-ship 
Revenge  had  flung  out  cables  to  the  quays, 


394  DRAKE 

And  while  the  seamen,  as  he  had  commanded, 

Knotted  thick  ropes  together,  he  stood  apart 

(For  well  he  knew  what  panic  threatened  still) 

Whittling  idly  at  a  scrap  of  wood, 

And  carved  a  little  boat  out  for  the  child 

Of  some  old  sea-companion. 

So  great  and  calm  a  master  of  the  world 

Seemed  Drake  that,  as  he  whittled,  and  the  chips 

Fluttered  into  the  blackness  over  the  quay, 

Men  said  that  in  this  hour  of  England's  need 

Each  tiny  flake  turned  to  a  battle-ship; 

For  now  began  the  lanthorns,  one  by  one, 

To  glitter,  and  half-reveal  the  shadowy  hulks 

Before  him. — So  the  huge  old  legend  grew, 

Not  all  unworthjr  the  Homeric  age 

Of  gods  and  god-like  men. 

St.  Michael's  Mount, 
Answering  the  first  wild  beacon  far  away, 
Rolled  crimson  thunders  to  the  stormy  sky! 
The  ropes  were  knotted.     Through  the  panting  dark 
Great  heaving  lines  of  seamen  all  together 
Hauled  with  a  shout,  and  all  together  again 
Hauled  with  a  shout  against  the  roaring  wind; 
And  slowly,  slowl}r,  onward  tow'rds  the  sea 
Moved  the  Revenge,  and  seaward  ever  heaved 
The  brawny  backs  together,  and  in  their  midst, 
Suddenly,  as  they  slackened,  Drake  was  there 
Hauling  like  any  ten,  and  with  his  heart 
Doubling  the  strength  of  all,  giving  them  joy 
Of  battle  against  those  odds, — ay,  till  they  found 
Delight  in  the  burning  tingle  of  the  blood 
That  even  their  hardy  hands  must  feel  besmear 
The  harsh,  rough,  straining  ropes.     There  as  thej'  toiled, 
Answering  a  score  of  hills,  old  Beachy  Head 
Streamed  like  a  furnace  to  the  rolling  clouds 
Then  all  around  the  coast  each  windy  ness 
And  craggy  mountain  kindled.     Peak  from  peak 
Caught  the  tremendous  fire,  and  passed  it  on 
Round  the  bluff  East  and  the  black  mouth  of  Thames, — 
Up,  northward  to  the  waste  wild  Yorkshire  fells 
And  gloomy  Cumberland,  where,  like  a  giant, 


DRAKE  395 

Great  Skiddaw  grasped  the  red  tempestuous  brand, 

And  thrust  it  up  against  the  reeling  heavens. 

Then  all  night  long,  inland,  the  wandering  winds 

Ran  wild  with  clamour  and  clash  of  startled  bells; 

All  night  the  cities  seethed  with  torches,  flashed 

With  twenty  thousand  flames  of  burnished  steel; 

While  over  the  trample  and  thunder  of  hooves  blazed  forth 

The  lightning  of  wild  trumpets.     Lonely  lanes 

Of  country  darkness,  lit  by  cottage  doors 

Entwined  with  rose  and  honeysuckle,  roared 

Like  mountain-torrents  now — East,  West,  and  South, 

As  to  the  coasts  with  pike  and  musket  streamed 

The  trained  bands,  horse  and  foot,  from  every  town 

And  every  hamlet.     All  the  shaggy  hills 

From  Milford  Haven  to  the  Downs  of  Kent, 

And  up  to  Humber,  gleamed  with  many  a  hedge 

Of  pikes  between  the  beacon's  crimson  glares; 

While  in  red  London  forty  thousand  men, 

In  case  the  Invader  should  prevail,  drew  swords 

Around  their  Queen.     All  night  in  dark  St.  Paul's, 

While  round  it  rolled  a  multitudinous  roar 

As  of  the  Atlantic  on  a  Western,  beach, 

And  all  the  leaning  London  streets  were  lit 

With  fury  of  torches,  rose  the  passionate  prayer 

Of  England's  peril: 

0  Lord  God  of  Hosts, 
Let  Thine  enemies  know  that  Thou  hast  taken 
England  into  Thine  hands! 

The  mighty  sound 
Rolled,  billowing  round  the  kneeling  aisles,  then  died, 
Echoing  up  the  heights.    A  voice,  far  off, 
As  on  the  cross  of  Calvary,  caught  it  up 
And  poured  the  prayer  o'er  that  deep  hush,  alone: 
We  beseech  Thee,  0  God,  to  go  before  our  armies, 
Bless  and  prosper  them  both  by  land  and  sea! 
Grant  unto  them  Thy  victory,  0  God, 

As  Thou  usedst  to  do  to  Thy  children  when  they  please  Theel 
All  power,  all  strength,  all  victory  come  from  Thee! 
Then  from  the  lips  of  all  those  thousands  burst 
A  sound  as  from  the  rent  heart  of  an  ocean, 
One  tumult,  one  great  rushing  storm  of  wings 


396  DRAKE 

Cleaving  the  darkness  round  the  Gates  of  Heaven: 
Some  put  their  trust  in  chariots  and  some  in  horses; 
But  we  ivill  remember  Thy  name,  0  Lord  our  God! 

So,  while  at  Plymouth  Sound  her  seamen  toiled 

All  through  the  night,  and  scarce  a  ship  had  won 

Seaward,  the  heart  of  England  cried  to  God. 

All  night,  while  trumpets  yelled  and  blared  without7 

And  signal  cannon  shook  the  blazoned  panes, 

And  billowing  multitudes  went  thundering  by, 

Amid  that  solemn  pillared  hush  arose 

From  lips  of  kneeling  thousands  one  great  prayer 

Storming  the  Gates  of  Heaven!     0  Lord,  our  God, 

Heavenly  Father,  have  mercy  upon  our  Queen, 

To  whom  Thy  far  dispersed  flock  do  fly 

In  the  anguish  of  their  soids.     Behold,  behold, 

How  many  princes  band  themselves  against  her, 

How  long  Thy  servant  hath  laboured  to  them  for  peace, 

How  proudly  they  prepare  themselves  for  battle! 

Arise,  therefore!     Maintain  Thine  own  cause, 

Judge  Thou  between  her  and  her  enemies! 

She  seeketh  not  her  own  honour,  but  Thine, 

Not  the  dominions  of  others,  but  Thy  truth, 

Not  bloodshed  but  the  saving  of  the  afflicted! 

0  rend  the  heavens,  therefore,  and  come  down, 

Deliver  Thy  people! 

To  vanquish  is  all  one  with  Thee,  by  few 

Or  many,  want  or  wealth,  weakness  or  strength. 

The  cause  is  Thine,  the  enemies  Thine,  the  afflicted 

Thine!     The  honour,  victory,  and  triumph 

Thine!    Grant  her  people  now  one  heart,  one  mind, 

One  strength.    Give  unto  her  councils  and  her  captains 

Wisdom  and  courage  strongly  to  withstand 

The  forces  of  her  enemies,  that  the  fame 

And  glory  of  Thy  Kingdom  may  be  spread 

Unto  the  ends  of  the  world.    Father,  we  crave 

This  in  Thy  mercy,  for  the  precious  death 

Of  Thy  dear  Son,  our  Saviour,  Jesus  Christ! 

Amen. 

And  as  the  dreadful  dawn  thro'  mist-wreaths  broke, 

And  out  of  Plymouth  Sound  at  last,  with  cheerr 


DRAKE  397 

Ringing  from  many  a  thousand  throats,  there  struggled 
Six  little  ships,  all  that  the  night's  long  toil 
Had  warped  down  to  the  sea  (but  leading  them 
The  ship  of  Drake)  there  rose  one  ocean-cry 
From  all  those  worshippers — Let  God  arise, 
And  let  His  enemies  be  scattered! 


Under  the  leaden  fogs  of  that  new  dawn, 

Empty  and  cold,  indifferent  as  death, 

The  sea  heaved  strangely  to  the  seamen's  eyes, 

Seeing  all  round  them  only  the  leaden  surge 

Wrapped  in  wet  mists  or  flashing  here  and  there 

With  crumbling  white.     Against  the  cold  wet  wind 

Westward  the  little  ships  of  England  beat 

With  short  tacks,  close  inshore,  striving  to  win 

The  windward  station  of  the  threatening  battle 

That  neared  behind  the  veil.     Six  little  ships, 

No  more,  beat  Westward,  even  as  all  mankind 

Beats  up  against  that  universal  wind 

Whereon  like  withered  leaves  all  else  is  blown 

Down  one  wide  way  to  death:  the  soul  alone, 

Whether  at  last  it  wins,  or  faints  and  fails, 

Stems  the  dark  tide  with  its  intrepid  sails. 

Close-hauled,  with  many  a  short  tack,  struggled  and  strained, 

North-west,  South-west,  the  ships;  but  ever  Westward  gained 

Some  little  way  with  every  tack ;  and  soon, 

While  the  prows  plunged  beneath  the  grey-gold  noon, 

Lapped  by  the  crackling  waves,  even  as  the  wind 

Died  down  a  little,  in  the  mists  behind 

Stole  out  from  Plymouth  Sound  the  struggling  score 

Of  ships  that  might  not  win  last  night  to  sea. 

They  followed;  but  the  Six  went  on  before, 

Not  knowing,  alone,  for  God  and  Liberty. 


Now,  as  they  tacked  North-west,  the  sullen  roar 
Of  reefs  crept  out,  or  some  strange  tinkling  sound 

Of  sneep  upon  the  hills.  South-west  once  more 
The  bo'sun's  whistle  swung  their  bowsprits  round; 


398  DRAKE 

South-west  until  the  long  low  lapping  splash 
Was  all  they  heard,  of  keels  that  still  ran  out 

Seaward,  then  with  one  muffled  heave  and  crash 
Once  more  the  whistles  brought  their  sails  about. 

And  now  the  noon  began  to  wane;  the  west 

With  slow  rich  colours  filled  and  shadowy  forms, 

Dark  curdling  wreaths  and  fogs  with  crimsoned  breast, 
And  tangled  zones  of  dusk  like  frozen  storms, 

Motionless,  flagged  with  sunset,  hulled  with  doom! 

Motionless?     Nay,  across  the  darkening  deep 
Surely  the  whole  sky  moved  its  gorgeous  gloom 

Onward;  and  like  the  curtains  of  a  sleep 

The  red  fogs  crumbled,  mists  dissolved  away! 

There,  like  death's  secret  dawning  thro'  a  dream, 
Great  thrones  of  thunder  dusked  the  dying  day, 

And,  higher,  pale  towers  of  cloud  began  to  gleam. 

There,  in  one  heaven-wide  storm,  great  masts  and  clouds 

Of  sail  crept  slowly  forth,  the  ships  of  Spain! 
From  North  to  South,  their  tangled  spars  and  shrouds 

Controlled  the  slow  wind  as  with  bit  and  rein; 
Onward  they  rode  in  insolent  disdain 

Sighting  the  little  fleet  of  England  there, 
While  o'er  the  sullen  splendour  of  the  main 

Three  solemn  guns  tolled  all  their  host  to  prayer, 
And  their  great  ensign  blazoned  all  the  doom-fraught  air. 

The  sacred  standard  of  their  proud  crusade 

Up  to  the  mast-head  of  their  flag-ship  soared: 
On  one  side  knelt  the  Holy  Mother-maid, 

On  one  the  crucified  Redeemer  poured 
His  blood,  and  all  their  kneeling  hosts  adored 

Their  saints,  and  clouds  of  incense  heavenward  streamed, 
While  pomp  of  cannonry  and  pike  and  sword 

Down  long  sea-lanes  of  mocking  menace  gleamed, 
And  chant  of  priests  rolled  out  o'er  seas  that  darkly  dreamed. 


DRAKE  399 

Who  comes  to  fight  for  England?    Is  it  ye, 

Six  little  straws  that  dance  upon  the  foam? 
Ay,  sweeping  o'er  the  sunset-crimsoned  sea 

Let  the  proud  pageant  in  its  glory  come, 
Leaving  the  sunset  like  a  hecatomb 

Of  souls  whose  bodies  yet  endure  the  chain! 
Let  slaves,  by  thousands,  branded,  scarred  and  dumb, 

In  those  dark  galleys  grip  their  oars  again, 
And  o'er  the  rolling  deep  bring  on  the  pomp  of  Spain; — 

Bring  on  the  pomp  of  royal  paladins 

(For  all  the  princedoms  of  the  land  are  there!) 
And  for  the  gorgeous  purple  of  their  sins 

The  papal  pomp  bring  on  with  psalm  and  prayer: 
Nearer  the  splendour  heaves;  can  ye  not  hear 

The  rushing  foam,  not  see  the  blazoned  arms, 
And  black-faced  hosts  thro'  leagues  of  golden  air 

Crowding  the  decks,  muttering  their  beads  and  charms 
To  where,  in  furthest  heaven,  they  thicken  like  locust-swarms? 

Bring  on  the  pomp  and  pride  of  old  Castille, 

Blazon  the  skies  with  royal  Aragon, 
Beneath  Oquendo  let  old  ocean  reel. 

The  purple  pomp  of  priestly  Rome  bring  on; 
And  let  her  censers  dusk  the  dying  sun, 

The  thunder  of  her  banners  on  the  breeze 
Following  Sidonia's  glorious  galleon 

Deride  the  sleeping  thunder  of  the  seas, 
"While  twenty  thousand  warriors  chant  her  litanies. 

Lo,  all  their  decks  are  kneeling!     Sky  to  sky 

Responds!     It  is  their  solemn  evening  hour. 
Salve  Regina,  though  the  daylight  die, 

Salve  Regina,  though  the  darkness  lour; 
Have  they  not  still  the  kingdom  and  the  power? 

Salve  Regina,  hark,  their  thousands  cry, 
From  where  like  clouds  to  where  like  mountains  tower 

Their  crowded  galleons  looming  far  or  nigh, 
Salve  Regina,  hark,  what  distant  seas  reply! 


400  DRAKE 

What  distant  seas,  what  distant  ages  hear? 

Bring  on  the  pomp!  the  sun  of  Spain  goes  down: 
The  moon  but  swells  the  tide  of  praise  and  prayer; 

Bring  on  the  world-wide  pomp  of  her  renown; 
Let  darkness  crown  her  with  a  starrier  crown, 

And  let  her  watch  the  fierce  waves  crouch  and  fawn 
Round  those  huge  hulks  from  which  her  cannon  frown, 

While  close  inshore  the  wet  sea-mists  are  drawn 
Round  England's  Drake:  then  wait,  in  triumph,  for  the  dawn. 


The  sun  of  Rome  goes  down;  the  night  is  dark! 

Still  are  her  thousands  praying,  still  their  cry 
Ascends  from  the  wide  waste  of  waters,  hark! 

Ave  Maria,  darker  grows  the  sky! 
Ave  Maria,  those  about  to  die 

Salute  thee!     Nay,  what  wandering  winds  blaspheme 
With  random  gusts  of  chilling  prophecy 

Against  the  solemn  sounds  that  heavenward  stream! 
The  night  is  come  at  last.     Break  not  the  splendid  dream. 


But  through  the  misty  darkness,  close  inshore, 
North-west,  South-west,  and  ever  Westward  strained 
The  little  ships  of  England.     All  night  long, 
As  down  the  coast  the  reddening  beacons  leapt, 
The  crackle  and  lapping  splash  of  tacking  keels, 
The  bo'suns'  low  sharp  whistles  and  the  whine 
Of  ropes,  mixing  with  many  a  sea-bird's  cry 
Disturbed  the  darkness,  waking  vague  swift  fears 
Among  the  mighty  hulks  of  Spain  that  lay 
Nearest,  then  fading  through  the  mists  inshore 
North-west,  then  growing  again,  but  farther  down 
Their  ranks  to  Westward  with  each  dark  return 
And  dark  departure,  till  the  rearmost  rank 
Of  grim  sea-castles  heard  the  swish  and  creak 
Pass  plashing  seaward  thro'  the  wet  sea-mists 
To  windward  now  of  all  that  monstrous  host, 
Then  heard  no  more  than  wandering  sea-birds'  cries 
Wheeling  around  their  leagues  of  lanthorn-light, 
Or  heave  of  waters,  waiting  for  the  dawn. 


DRAKE  401 

Dawn,  everlasting  and  almighty  dawn 

Rolled  o'er  the  waters.     The  grey  mists  were  fled. 
See,  in  their  reeking  heaven-wide  crescent  drawn 

Those  masts  and  spars  and  cloudy  sails,  outspread 
Like  one  great  sulphurous  tempest  soaked  with  red, 

In  vain  withstand  the  march  of  brightening  skies: 
The  dawn  sweeps  onward  and  the  night  is  dead, 

And  lo,  to  windward,  what  bright  menace  lies, 
What  glory  kindles  now  in  England's  wakening  eyes? 


There,  on  the  glittering  plains  of  open  sea, 

To  windward  now,  behind  the  fleets  of  Spain, 
Two  little  files  of  ships  are  tossing  free, 

Free  of  the  winds  and  of  the  wind-swept  main : 
Were  they  not  trapped?     Who  brought  them  forth  again, 

Free  of  the  great  new  fields  of  England's  war, 
With  sails  like  blossoms  shining  after  rain, 

And  guns  that  sparkle  to  the  morning  star? 
Drake! — first  upon  the  deep  that  rolls  to  Trafalgar! 

And  Spain  knows  well  that  flag  of  fiery  fame, 

Spain  knows  who  leads  those  files  across  the  sea; 
Implacable,  invincible,  his  name 

El  Draque,  creeps  hissing  through  her  ranks  to  lee; 
But  now  she  holds  the  rolling  heavens  in  fee, 

His  ships  are  few.     They  surge  across  the  f oar.:, 
The  hunt  is  tip!    But  need  the  mountains  flee 

Or  fear  the  snarling  wolf-pack?     Let  them  come! 
They  crouch,  but  dare  not  leap  upon  the  flanks  of  Rome. 

Nearer  they  come  and  nearer!     Nay,  prepare! 

Close  your  huge  ranks  that  sweep  from  sky  to  sky! 
Madness  itself  would  shrink;  but  Drake  will  dare 

Eternal  hell!     Let  the  great  signal  fly — ■ 
Close  up  your  ranks;  El  Draque  comes  down  to  die! 

El  Draque  is  brave!     The  vast  sea-cities  loom 
Thro'  heaven:    Spain  spares  one  smile  of  chivalry, 

One  wintry  smile  across  her  cannons'  gloom 
As  that  frail  fleet  full-sail  comes  rushing  tow'rds  its  doom. 

26 


402  DRAKE 

Suddenly,  as  the  wild  change  of  a  dream, 

Even  as  the  Spaniards  watched  those  lean  sharp  prows 

Leap  straight  at  their  huge  hulks,  watched  well  content, 

Knowing  their  foes,  once  grappled,  must  be  doomed; 

Even  as  they  caught  the  rush  and  hiss  of  foam 

Across  that  narrow,  dwindling  gleam  of  sea, 

And  heard,  abruptly  close,  the  sharp  commands 

And  steady  British  answers,  caught  one  glimpse 

Of  bare-armed  seamen  waiting  by  their  guns, 

The  vision  changed !    The  ships  of  England  swerved 

Swiftly — a  volley  of  flame  and  thunder  swept 

Blinding  the  buffeted  air,  a  volley  of  iron 

From  four  sheer  broadsides,  crashing  thro'  a  hulk 

Of  Spain.     She  reeled,  blind  in  the  fiery  surge 

And  fury  of  that  assault.     So  swift  it  seemed 

That  as  she  heeled  to  leeward,  ere  her  guns 

Trained  on  the  foe  once  more,  the  sulphurous  cloud 

That  wrapped  the  sea,  once,  twice,  and  thrice  again 

Split  with  red  thunder-claps  that  rent  and  raked 

Her  huge  beams  through  and  through.     Ay,  as  she  heeled 

To  leeward  still,  her  own  grim  cannon  belched 

Their  lava  skyward,  wounding  the  void  air, 

And,  as  by  miracle,  the  ships  of  Drake 

Were  gone.     Along  the  Spanish  rear  they  swept 

From  North  to  South,  raking  them  as  they  went 

At  close  range,  hardly  a  pistol-shot  away, 

With  volley  on  volley.     Never  Spain  had  seen 

Seamen  or  marksmen  like  to  these  who  sailed 

Two  knots  against  her  one.     They  came  and  went, 

Suddenly  neared  or  sheered  away  at  will 

As  if  by  magic,  pouring  flame  and  iron 

In  four  full  broadsides  thro'  some  Spanish  hulk 

Ere  one  of  hers  burst  blindly  at  the  sky. 

Southward,  along  the  Spanish  rear  they  swept, 

Then  swung  about,  and  volleying  sheets  of  flame, 

Iron,  and  death,  along  the  same  fierce  road 

Littered  with  spars,  reeking  with  sulphurous  fumes, 

Returned,  triumphantly  rushing,  all  their  sails 

Alow,  aloft,  full-bellied  with  the  wind. 


DRAKE  403 

Then,  then,  from  sky  to  sky,  one  mighty  surge 

Of  baleful  pride,  huge  wrath,  stormy  disdain, 
With  shuddering  clouds  and  towers  of  sail  would  urge 

Onward  the  heaving  citadels  of  Spain, 
Which  dragged  earth's  thunders  o'er  the  groaning  main, 

And  held  the  panoplies  of  faith  in  fee, 
Beating  against  the  wind,  struggling  in  vain 

To  close  with  that  swift  ocean-cavalry: 
Spain  had  all  earth  in  charge!    Had  England,  then,  the  sea? 


Spain  had  the  mountains — mountains  flow  like  clouds. 

Spain  had  great  kingdoms — kingdoms  melt  away! 
Yet,  in  that  crescent,  army  on  army  crowds, 

How  shall  she  fear  what  seas  or  winds  can  say? — 
The  seas  that  leap  and  shine  round  earth's  decay, 

The  winds  that  mount  and  sing  while  empires  fall, 
And  mountains  pass  like  waves  in  the  wind's  way, 

And  dying  gods  thro'  shuddering  twilights  call. 
Had  England,  then,  the  sea  that  sweeps  o'er  one  and  all? 

See,  in  gigantic  wrath  the  Rata  hurls 

Her  mighty  prows  round  to  the  wild  sea- wind : 
The  deep  like  one  black  maelstrom  round  her  swirls 

While  great  Recalde  follows  hard  behind: 
Reeling,  like  Titans,  thunder-blasted,  blind, 

They  strive  to  cross  the  ships  of  England — yea, 
Challenge  them  to  the  grapple,  and  only  find 

Red  broadsides  bursting  o'er  the  bursting  spray, 
And  England  surging  still  along  her  windward  way! 

To  windward  still  Revenge  and  Raleigh  flash 

And  thunder,  and  the  sea  flames  red  between: 
In  vain  against  the  wind  the  galleons  crash 

And  plunge  and  pour  blind  volleys  thro'  the  screen 
Of  rolling  sulphurous  clouds  at  dimly  seen 

Topsails  that,  to  and  fro,  like  sea-birds  fly! 
Ever  to  leeward  the  great  hulks  careen; 

Their  thousand  cannon  can  but  wound  the  sky, 
While  England's  little  Rainbow  foams  and  flashes  by. 


404  DRAKE 

Suddenly  the  flag-ship  of  Recalde,  stung 

To  fury  it  seemed,  heeled  like  an  avalanche 

To  leeward,  then  reeled  out  beyond  the  rest 

Against  the  wind,  alone,  daring  the  foe 

To  grapple  her.     At  once  the  little  Revenge 

With  Drake's  flag  flying  flashed  at  her  throat, 

And  hardly  a  cable's-length  away  out-belched 

Broadside  on  broadside,  under  those  great  cannon, 

Crashing  through  five-foot  beams,  four  shots  to  one, 

While  Howard  and  the  rest  swept  to  and  fro 

Keeping  at  deadly  bay  the  rolling  hulks 

That  looming  like  Leviathans  now  plunged 

Desperately  against  the  freshening  wind 

To  rescue  the  great  flag-ship  where  she  lay 

Alone,  amid  the  cannonades  of  Drake, 

Alone,  like  a  volcanic  island  lashed 

With  crimson  hurricanes,  dinning  the  winds 

With  isolated  thunders,  flaking  the  skies 

With  wrathful  lava,  while  great  spars  and  blocks 

Leapt  through  the  cloudy  glare  and  fell,  far  off, 

Like  small  black  stones  into  the  hissing  sea. 

Oquendo  saw  her  peril  far  away! 

His  rushing  prow  thro'  heaven  begins  to  loom, 
Oquendo,  first  in  all  that  proud  array, 

Hath  heart  the  pride  of  Spain  to  reassume : 
He  comes;  the  rolling  seas  are  dusked  with  gloom 

Of  his  great  sails!     Now  round  him  once  again, 
Thrust  out  your  oars,  ye  mighty  hulks  of  doom; 

Forward,  with  hiss  of  whip  and  clank  of  chain! 
Let  twice  ten  hundred  slaves  bring  on  the  wrath  of  Spain! 

Siclonia  comes !     Toledo  comes ! — huge  ranks 

That  rally  against  the  storm  from  sky  to  sky, 
As  down  the  dark  blood-rusted  chain-locked  planks 

Of  labouring  galleys  the  dark  slave-guards  ply 
Their  knotted  scourges,  and  the  red  flakes  fly 

From  bare  scarred  backs  that  quiver  and  heave  once  more, 
And  slaves  that  heed  not  if  they  live  or  die 

Pull  with  numb  arms  at  many  a  red-stained  oar, 
Nor  know  the  sea's  dull  crash  from  cannon's  growing  roar. 


DRAKE  405 

Bring  on  the  wrath !    From  heaven  to  rushing  heaven 

The  white  foam  sweeps  around  their  fierce  array; 
In  vain  before  their  shattering  crimson  levin 

The  ships  of  England  flash  and  dart  away: 
Not  England's  heart  can  hold  that  host  at  bay! 

See,  a  swift  signal  shoots  along  her  line, 
Her  ships  are  scattered,  they  fly,  they  fly  like  spray 

Driven  against  the  wind  by  wrath  divine, 
While,  round  Recalde  now,  Sidonia's  cannon  shine. 

The  wild  sea-winds  with  golden  trumpets  blaze! 

One  wave  will  wash  away  the  crimson  stain 
That  blots  Recalde's  decks.     Her  first  amaze 

Is  over:  down  the  Channel  once  again 
Turns  the  triumphant  pageantry  of  Spain 

In  battle-order,  now.     Behind  her,  far, 
While  the  broad  sun  sinks  to  the  Western  main, 

Glitter  the  little  ships  of  England's  war, 
And  over  them  in  heaven  glides  out  the  first  white  star. 

The  sun  goes  down:  the  heart  of  Spain  is  proud: 

Her  censers  fume,  her  golden  trumpets  blow! 
Into  the  darkening  East  with  cloud  on  cloud 

Of  broad-flung  sail  her  huge  sea-castles  go: 
Rich  under  blazoned  poops  like  rose-flushed  snow 

Tosses  the  foam.     Far  off  the  sunset  gleams: 
Her  banners  like  a  thousand  sunsets  glow, 

As  down  the  darkening  East  the  pageant  streams, 
Full-fraught  with  doom   for  England,   rigged  with  princely 
dreams. 

Nay,  "rigged  with  curses  dark,"  as  o'er  the  waves 
Drake  watched  them  slowly  sweeping  into  the  gloom 
That  thickened  down  the  Channel,  watched  them  go 
In  ranks  compact,  roundels  impregnable, 
With  Biscay's  bristling  broad-beamed  squadron  drawn 
Behind  for  rear-guard.     As  the  sun  went  down 
Drake  flew  the  council-flag.     Across  the  sea 
That  gleamed  still  like  a  myriad-petalled  rose 
Up  to  the  little  Revenge  the  pinnaces  foamed. 


406  DRAKE 

There,  on  Drake's  powder-grimed  escutcheoned  poop 

They  gathered,  Admirals  and  great  flag-captains, 

Hawkins,  Frobisher,  shining  names  and  famous, 

And  some  content  to  serve  and  follow  and  fight 

Where  duty  called  unknown,  but  heroes  all. 

High  on  the  poop  they  clustered,  gazing  East 

With  faces  dark  as  iron  against  the  flame 

Of  sunset,  eagle-faces,  iron  lips, 

And  keen  eyes  fiercely  flashing  as  they  turned 

Like  sword-flames  now,  or  dark  and  deep  as  night 

Watching  the  vast  Armada  slowly  mix 

Its  broad-flung  sails  with  twilight  where  it  dragged 

Thro'  thickening  heavens  its  curdled  storms  of  clouds 

Down  the  wide  darkening  Channel. 

"My  Lord  Howard,'! 
Said  Drake,  "it  seems  we  have  but  scarred  the  skins 
Of  those  huge  hulks:  the  hour  grows  late  for  England. 
'Twere  well  to  handle  them  again  at  once."     A  growl 
Of  fierce  approval  answered;  but  Lord  Howard 
Cried  out,  "Attack  we  cannot,  save  at  risk 
Of  our  whole  fleet.     It  is  not  death  I  fear, 
But  England's  peril.     We  have  fought  all  day, 
Accomplished  nothing.     Half  our  powder  is  spent! 
I  think  it  best  to  hang  upon  their  flanks 
Till  we  be  reinforced." 

"My  lord,"  said  Drake, 
"Had  we  that  week  to  spare  for  which  I  prayed, 
And  were  we  handling  them  in  Spanish  seas, 
We  might  delay.     There  is  no  choosing  now. 
Yon  hulks  of  doom  are  steadfastly  resolved 
On  one  tremendous  path  and  solid  end — 
To  join  their  powers  with  Parma's  thirty  thousand 
(Not  heeding  our  light  horsemen  of  the  sea), 
Then  in  one  earthquake  of  o'erwhelming  arms 
Roll  Europe    ver  England.     They've  not  grasped 
The  first  poor  thought  which  now  and  evermore 
Must  be  the  sceptre  of  Britain,  the  steel  trident 
Of  ocean-sovereignty.     That  mighty  fleet 
Invincible,  impregnable,  omnipotent, 
Must  here  and  now  be  shattered,  never  be  joined 
With  Parma,  never  abase  the  wind-swept  sea, 


DRAKE  407 

With  oaken  roads  for  thundering  legions 
To  trample  in  the  splendour  of  the  sun 
From  Europe  to  our  island. 

As  for  food, 
In  yonder  enemy's  fleet  there  is  food  enough 
To  feed  a  nation;  ay,  and  powder  enough 
To  split  an  empire.     I  will  answer  for  it 
Ye  shall  not  lack  of  either,  nor  for  shot, 
Not  though  ye  pluck  them  out  of  your  own  beams 
To  feed  your  hungry  cannon.     Cast  your  bread 
Upon  the  waters.     Think  not  of  the  Queen! 
She  will  not  send  it!     For  she  hath  not  known 
(How  could  she  know?)  this  wide  new  realm  of  hers, 
When  we  ourselves — her  seamen — scarce  have  learnt 
What  means  this  kingdom  of  the  ocean-sea 
To  England  and  her  throne — food,  life-blood,  life! 
She  could  not  understand  who,  when  our  ships 
Put  out  from  Plymouth,  hardly  gave  them  store 
Of  powder  and  shot  to  last  three  fighting  days, 
Or  rations  even  for  those.     Blame  not  the  Queen, 
Who  hath  striven  for  England  as  no  king  hath  fought 
Since  England  was  a  nation.     Bear  with  me, 
For  I  must  pour  my  heart  before  you  now 
This  one  last  time.     Yon  fishing-boats  have  brought 
Tidings  how  on  this  very  day  she  rode 
Before  her  mustered  pikes  at  Tilbury. 
Methinks  I  see  her  riding  down  their  lines 
High  on  her  milk-white  Barbary  charger,  hear 
Her  voice — '  My  people,  though  my  flesh  be  woman, 
My  heart  is  of  your  kingly  lion's  breed  : 
I  come  myself  to  lead  you  !'     I  see  the  sun 
Shining  upon  her  armour,  hear  the  voice 
Of  all  her  armies  roaring  like  one  sea — 
God  save  Elizabeth,  our  English  Queen! 
'God  save  her,'  I  say,  too;  but  still  she  dreams, 
As  all  too  many  of  us — bear  with  me! — dream, 
Of  Crecy,  when  our  England's  war  was  thus; 
When  we,  too,  hurled  our  hosts  across  the  deep 
As  now  Spain  dreams  to  hurl  them  on  our  isle. 
But  now  our  war  is  otherwise.     We  claim 
The  sea's  command,  and  Spain  shall  never  land 


408  DRAKE 

One  swordsman  on  our  island.     Blame  her  not, 

But  look  not  to  the  Queen.    The  people  fight 

This  war  of  ours,  not  princes.     In  this  hour 

God  maketh  us  a  people.     We  have  seen 

Victories,  never  victory  like  to  this, 

When  in  our  England's  darkest  hour  of  need 

Her  seamen,  without  wage,  powder,  or  food, 

Are  yet  on  fire  to  fight  for  her.     Your  ships 

Tossing  in  the  great  sunset  of  an  Empire, 

Dawn  of  a  sovereign  people,  are  all  manned 

By  heroes,  ragged,  hungry,  who  will  die 

Like  flies  ere  long,  because  they  have  no  ford 

But  turns  to  fever-breeding  carrion 

Not  fit  for  dogs.     They  are  half-naked,  hopeless 

Living,  of  any  reward;  and  if  they  die 

They  die  a  dog's  death.     We  shall  reap  the  fame 

While  they — great  God!  and  all  this  cannot  quench 

The  glory  in  their  eyes.     They  will  be  served 

Six  at  the  mess  of  four,  eking  it  out 

With  what  their  own  rude  nets  ma}'  catch  by  night, 

Silvering  the  guns  and  naked  arms  that  haul 

Under  the  stars  with  silver  past  all  price, 

While  some  small  ship-boy  in  the  black  crow's  nest 

Watches  across  the  waters  for  the  foe. 

My  lord,  it  is  a  terrible  thing  for  Spain 

When  poor  men  thus  go  out  against  her  princes; 

For  so  God  whispers  '  Victory'  in  our  ears, 

I  cannot  dare  to  doubt  it." 

Once  again 
A  growl  of  fierce  approval  answered  him, 
And  Hawkins  cried — "I  stand  by  Francis  Drake"; 
But  Howard,  clinging  to  his  old-world  order, 
Yet  with  such  manly  strength  as  dared  to  rank 
Drake's  wisdom  of  the  sea  above  his  own, 
Sturdily  shook  his  head.     "I  dare  not  risk 
A  close  attack.     Once  grappled  we  are  doomed. 
We'll  follow  on  their  trail  no  less,  with  Drake 
Leading.     Our  oriflamme  to-night  shall  be 
His  cresset  and  stern-lanthorn.     Where  that  shines 
We  follow." 


DRAKE  409 

Drake,  still  thinking  in  his  heart, — 
"And  if  Spain  be  not  shattered  here  and  now 
We  are  doomed  no  less,"  must  even  rest  content 
With  that  good  vantage. 

As  the  sunset  died 
Over  the  darlding  emerald  seas  that  swelled 
Before  the  freshening  wind,  the  pinnaces  dashed 
To  their  own  ships;  and  into  the  mind  of  Drake 
There  stole  a  plot  that  twitched  his  lips  to  a  smile. 
High  on  the  heaving  purple  of  the  poop 
Under  the  glimmer  of  firm  and  full-blown  sails 
He  stood,  an  iron  statue,  glancing  back 
Anon  at  his  stern-cresset's  crimson  flare, 
The  star  of  all  the  shadowy  ships  that  plunged 
Like  ghosts  amid  the  grey  stream  of  his  wake, 
And  all  around  him  heard  the  low  keen  song 
Of  hidden  ropes  above  the  wail  and  creak 
Of  blocks  and  long  low  swish  of  cloven  foam, 
A  keen  rope-music  in  the  formless  night, 
A  harmony,  a  strong  intent  good  sound, 
Well-strung  and  taut,  singing  the  will  of  man. 
"Your  oriflamme,"  he  muttered, — "so  you  travail 
With  sea-speech  in  the  tongue  of  old  Poictiers — 
Shall  be  my  own  stern-lanthorn.     Watch  it  well, 
My  good  Lord  Howard." 

Over  the  surging  seas 
The  little  Revenge  went  swooping  on  the  trail, 
Leading  the  ships  of  England.     One  by  one 
Out  of  the  gloom  before  them  slowly  crept, 
Sinister  gleam  by  gleam,  like  blood-red  stars, 
The  rearmost  lanthorns  of  the  Spanish  Fleet, 
A  shaggy  purple  sky  of  secret  storm 
Heaving  from  north  to  south  upon  the  black 
Breast  of  the  waters.     Once  again  with  lips 
Twitched  to  a  smile,  Drake  suddenly  bade  them  crowd 
All  sail  upon  the  little  Revenge.     She  leapt 
Forward.     Smiling  he  watched  the  widening  gap 
Between  the  ships  that  followed  and  her  light, 
Then  as  to  those  behind,  its  flicker  must  seem 
Wellnigh  confused  with  those  of  Spain,  he  cried, 
"Now,  master  bo'sun,  quench  their  oriflamme, 


410  DRAKE 

Dip  their  damned  cresset  in  the  good  black  Sea! 
The  rearmost  light  of  Spain  shall  lead  them  now, 
A  little  closer,  if  they  think  it  ours. 
Pray  God,  they  come  to  blows!" 

Even  as  he  spake 
His  cresset-flare  went  out  in  the  thick  night: 
A  fluttering  as  of  blind  bewildered  moths 
A  moment  seized  upon  the  shadowy  ships 
Behind  him,  then  with  crowded  sail  they  steered 
Straight  for  the  rearmost  cresset-flare  of  Spain. 


BOOK  XII 

Meanwhile,  as  in  the  gloom  he  slipped  aside 

Along  the  Spanish  ranks,  waiting  the  crash 

Of  battle,  suddenly  Drake  became  aware 

Of  strange  sails  bearing  up  into  the  wind 

Around  his  right,  and  thought,  "the  Armada  strives 

To  weather  us  in  the  dark."     Down  went  his  helm, 

And  all  alone  the  little  Revenge  gave  chase, 

Till  as  the  moon  crept  slowly  forth,  she  stood 

Beside  the  ghostly  ships,  only  to  see 

Bewildered  Flemish  merchantmen,  amazed 

With  fears  of  Armageddon — such  vast  shrouds 

Had  lately  passed  them  on  the  rolling  seas. 

Down  went  his  helm  again,  with  one  grim  curse 

Upon  the  chance  that  led  him  thus  astra3r; 

And  down  the  wind  the  little  Revenge  once  more 

Swept  on  the  trail.     Fainter  and  fainter  now 

Glared  the  red  beacons  on  the  British  coasts, 

And  the  wind  slackened  and  the  glimmering  East 

Greyed  and  reddened,  yet  Drake  had  not  regained 

Sight  of  the  ships.     When  the  full  glory  of  dawn 

Dazzled  the  sea,  he  found  himself  alone, 

With  one  huge  galleon  helplessly  drifting 

A  cable's-length  away.    Around  her  prow, 

Nuestra  Seiiora  del  Rosario, 

Richly  emblazoned,  gold  on  red,  proclaimed 

The  flagship  of  great  Valdes,  of  the  fleet 

Of  Andalusia,  captain-general.     She, 


DRAKE  411 

Last  night,  in  dark  collision  with  the  hulks 

Of  Spain,  had  lost  her  foremast.     Through  the  night 

Her  guns,  long  rank  on  deadly  rank,  had  kept 

All  enemies  at  bay.     Drake  summoned  her 

Instantly  to  surrender.     She  returned 

A  scornful  answer  from  the  glittering  poop 

Where  two-score  officers  crowned  the  golden  sea 

And  stained  the  dawn  with  blots  of  richer  colour 

Loftily  clustered  in  the  glowing  sky, 

Doubleted  with  cramoisy  velvet,  wreathed 

With  golden  chains,  blazing  with  jewelled  swords 

And  crusted  poignards.     "What  proud  haste  was  this?" 

They  asked,  glancing  at  their  huge  tiers  of  cannon 

And  crowded  decks  of  swarthy  soldiery; 

"What  madman  in  yon  cockle-shell  defied 

Spain?" 

"Tell  them  it  is  El  Draque,"  he  said,  "who  lacks 
The  time  to  parley;  therefore  it  will  be  well 
They  strike  at  once,  for  I  am  in  great  haste." 
There,  at  the  sound  of  that  renowned  name, 
Without  a  word  down  came  their  blazoned  flag. 
Like  a  great  fragment  of  the  dawn  it  lay 
Crumpled  upon  their  decks.   .    .    . 

Into  the  soft  bloom  and  Italian  blue 
Of  sparkling,  ever-beautiful  Torbay, 
Belted  as  with  warm  Mediterranean  crags, 
The  little  Revenge  foamed  with  her  mighty  prize, 
A  prize  indeed — not  for  the  casks  of  gold 
Drake  split  in  the  rich  sunlight  and  poured  out 
Like  dross  amongst  his  men,  but  in  her  hold 
Lay  many  tons  of  powder,  worth  their  weight 
In  rubies  now  to  Britain.     Into  the  hands 
Of  swarthy  Brixham  fishermen  he  gave 
Prisoners  and  prize,  then — loaded  stem  to  stern 
With  powder  and  shot — their  swiftest  trawlers  flew 
Like  falcons  following  a  thunder-cloud 
Behind  him,  as  with  crowded  sail  he  rushed 
On  England's  trail  once  more.     Like  a  caged  lion 
Drake  paced  his  deck,  praying  he  yet  might  reach 
The  fight  in  time;  and  ever  the  warm  light  wind 


412  DRAKE 

Slackened.     Not  till  the  sun  was  half-way  fallen 
Once  more  crept  out  in  front  those  dusky  thrones 
Of  thunder,  heaving  on  the  smooth  bright  sea 
From  North  to  South  with  Howard's  clustered  fleet 
Like  tiny  clouds,  becalmed,  not  half  a  mile 
Behind  the  Spaniards.     For  the  breeze  had  failed 
Their  blind  midnight  pursuit;  and  now  attack 
Seemed  hopeless.     Even  as  Drake  drew  nigh,  the  last 
Breath  of  the  wind  sank.     One  more  day  had  flown, 
Nought  was  accomplished;  and  the  Armada  lay 
Some  leagues  of  golden  sea-way  nearer  now 
To  its  great  goal.     The  sun  went  down:  the  moon 
Rose  glittering.     Hardly  a  cannon-shot  apart 
The  two  fleets  lay  becalmed  upon  the  silver 
Swell  of  the  smooth  night-tide.     The  hour  had  come 
For  Spain  to  strike.     The  ships  of  England  drifted 
Helplessly,  at  the  mercy  of  those  great  hulks 
Oared  by  their  thousand  slaves. 

Onward  they  came, 
Swinging  suddenly  in  tremendous  gloom 
Over  the  silver  seas.    But  even  as  Drake, 
With  eyes  on  fire  at  last  for  his  last  fight, 
Measured  the  distance  ere  he  gave  the  word 
To  greet  it  with  his  cannon,  suddenly 
The  shining  face  of  the  deep  began  to  shiver 
With  dusky  patches:  the  doomed  English  sails 
Quivered  and,  filling  smart  from  the  North-east, 
The  little  Revenge  rushed  down  their  broken  line 
Signalling  them  to  follow,  and  ere  they  knew 
What  miracle  had  saved  them,  they  all  sprang 
Their  luff  and  ran  large  out  to  sea.     For  now 
The  Armada  lay  to  windward,  and  to  fight 
Meant  to  be  grappled  and  overwhelmed;  but  dark 
Within  the  mind  of  Drake,  a  fiercer  plan 
Alreadv  had  shaped  itself. 

"They  fly!     They  fly!" 
Rending  the  heavens  from  twice  ten  thousand  throats 
A  mighty  shout  rose  from  the  Spanish  Fleet. 
Over  the  moonlit  waves  their  galleons  came 
Towering,  crowding,  plunging  down  the  wind 
In  full  chase,  while  the  tempter,  Drake,  laughed  low 


DRAKE  413 

To  watch  their  solid  battle-order  break 

^.nd  straggle.     When  once  more  the  golden  dawn 

Dazzled  the  deep,  the  labouring  galleons  lay 

Scattered  by  their  unequal  speed.     The  wind 

Veered  as  the  sun  rose.     Once  again  the  ships 

Of  England  lay  to  windward.     Down  swooped  Drake 

Where  like  a  mountain  the  fiati  Marcos  heaved 

Her  giant  flanks  alone,  having  out-sailed 

Her  huge  companions.     Then  the  sea-winds  blazed 

With  broadsides.     Two  long  hours  the  sea  flamed  red 

All  round  her.     One  by  one  the  Titan  ships 

Came  surging  to  her  rescue,  and  met  the  buffet 

Of  battle- thunders,  belching  iron  and  flame; 

Nor  could  they  pluck  her  forth  from  that  red  chaos 

Till  great  Oquendo  hurled  his  mighty  prows 

Crashing  athwart  those  thunders,  and  once  more 

Gathered  into  unshakeable  battle-order 

The  whole  Armada  raked  the  reeking  seas. 

Then  up  the  wind  the  ships  of  England  sheered 

Once  more,  and  one  more  day  drew  to  its  close, 

With  little  accomplished,  half  their  powder  spent, 

And  all  the  Armada  moving  as  of  old, 

From  sky  to  sky  one  heaven-wide  zone  of  storm, 

(Though  some  three  galleons  out  of  all  their  host 

Laboured  woundily)  down  the  darkening  Channel. 

And  all  night  long  on  England's  guardian  heights 

The  beacons  reddened,  and  all  the  next  long  day 

The  impregnable  Armada  never  swerved 

From  its  tremendous  path.     In  vain  did  Drake, 

Frobisher,  Hawkins,  Howard,  greatest  names 

In  all  our  great  sea-history,  hover  and  dart 

Like  falcons  round  the  mountainous  array. 

Till  now,  as  night  fell  and  they  lay  abreast 

Of  the  Isle  of  Wight,  once  more  the  council  flag 

Flew  from  the  little  Revenge.     With  iron  face 

Thrust  close  to  Howard's,  and  outstretched  iron  arm, 

Under  the  stars  Drake  pointed  clown  the  coast 

Where  the  red  beacons  flared.     "The  shoals,"  he  hissed. 

"The  shoals  from  Owers  to  Spithead  and  the  net 

Of  channels  yonder  in  Portsmouth  Roads.     At  dawn 

They'll  lie  to  leeward  of  the  Invincible 

Fleet!" 


414  DRAKE 

Swiftly,  in  mighty  sweeping  lines  Drake  set 
Before  the  council  his  fierce  battle-plan 
To  drive  the  Armada  down  upon  the  banks 
And  utterly  shatter  it — stroke  by  well-schemed  stroke 
As  he  unfolded  there  his  vital  plot 
And  touched  their  dead  cold  warfare  into  life 
Where  plan  before  was  none,  he  seemed  to  tower 
Above  them,  clad  with  the  deep  night  of  stars; 
And  those  that  late  would  rival  knew  him  now, 
In  all  his  great  simplicity,  their  king, 
One  of  the  gods  of  battle,  England's  Drake, 
A  soul  that  summoned  Csesar  from  his  grave, 
And  swept  with  Alexander  o'er  the  deep. 

So  when  the  dawn  thro'  rolling  wreaths  of  cloud 
Struggled,  and  all  the  waves  were  molten  gold, 
The  heart  of  Spain  exulted,  for  she  saw 
The  little  fleet  of  England  cloven  in  twain 
As  if  by  some  strange  discord.     A  light  breeze 
Blew  from  the  ripening  East;  and,  up  against  it, 
Urged  by  the  very  madness  of  defeat, 
Or  so  it  seemed,  one  half  the  British  fleet 
Drew  nigh,  towed  by  their  boats,  to  challenge  the  vast 
Tempest-winged  heaving  citadels  of  Spain, 
At  last  to  the  murderous  grapple;  while  far  away 
.  Their  other  half,  led  by  the  flag  of  Drake, 
Stood  out  to  sea,  as  if  to  escape  the  doom 
Of  that  sheer  madness,  for  the  light  wind  now 
Could  lend  them  no  such  wings  to  hover  and  swoop 
As  heretofore.     Nearer  the  mad  ships  came 
Towed  by  their  boats,  till  now  upon  their  right 
To  windward  loomed  the  Fleet  Invincible 
With  all  its  thunder-clouds,  and  on  their  left 
To  leeward,  gleamed  the  perilous  white  shoals 
With  their  long  level  lightnings  under  the  cliffs 
Of  England,  from  the  green  glad  garden  of  Wight 
To  the  Owers  and  Selsea  Bill.     Right  on  they  came, 
And  suddenly  the  wrench  of  thundering  cannon 
Shook  the  vast  hulks  that  towered  above  them.     Red 
Flamed  the  blue  sea  between.     Thunder  to  thunder 
Answered,  and  still  the  ships  of  Drake  sped  out 


DRAKE  415 

To  the  open  sea.     Sidonia  saw  them  go, 

Furrowing  the  deep  that  like  a  pale-blue  shield 

Lay  diamond-dazzled  now  in  the  full  light. 

Rich  was  the  omen  of  that  day  for  Spain, 

The  feast-day  of  Sidonia's  patron-saint! 

And  the  priests  chanted  and  the  trumpets  blew 

Triumphantly !     A  universal  shout 

Went  skyward  from  the  locust-swarming  decks, 

A  shout  that  rent  the  golden  morning  clouds 

From  heaven  to  menacing  heaven,  as  castle  to  castle 

Flew  the  great  battle-signal,  and  like  one  range 

Of  moving  mountains,  those  almighty  ranks 

Swept  down  upon  the  small  forsaken  ships! 

The  lion's  brood  was  in  the  imperial  nets 

Of  Spain  at  last.     Onward  the  mountains  came 

With  all  their  golden  clouds  of  sail  and  flags 

Like  streaming  cataracts;  all  their  glorious  chasms 

And  glittering  steeps,  echoing,  re-echoing, 

Calling,  answering,  as  with  the  herald  winds 

That  blow  the  golden  trumpets  of  the  morning 

From  Skiddaw  to  Helvellyn.     In  the  midst 

The  great  San  Martin  surged  with  heaven-wide  press 

Of  proudly  billowing  sail;  and  yet  once  more 

Slowly,  solemnly,  like  another  dawn 

Up  to  her  mast-head  soared  in  thunderous  gold 

The  sacred  standard  of  their  last  crusade; 

While  round  a  hundred  prows  that  heaved  thro'  heaven 

Like  granite  cliffs,  their  black  wet  shining  flanks, 

And  swept  like  moving  promontories,  rolled 

The  splendid  long-drawn  thunders  of  the  foam, 

And  flashed  the  untamed  white  lightnings  of  the  sea 

Back  to  a  morn  unhalyarded  of  man, 

Back  to  the  unleashed  sun  and  blazoned  clouds 

And  azure  sky — the  unfettered  flag  of  God. 


Like  one  huge  moving  coast-line  on  they  came 
Crashing,  and  closed  the  ships  of  England  round 

With  one  fierce  crescent  of  thunder  and  sweeping  flame, 
One  crimson  scythe  of  Death,  whose  long  sweep  drowned 

The  eternal  ocean  with  its  mighty  sound, 


416  DRAKE 

From  heaven  to  heaven,  one  roar,  one  glitter  of  doom, 
While  out  to  the  sea-line's  blue  remotest  bound 

The  ships  of  Drake  still  fled,  and  the  red  fume 
Of  battle  thickened  and  shrouded  shoal  and  sea  with  gloom. 

The  distant  sea,  the  close  white  menacing  shoals 

Are  shrouded !     And  the  lion's  brood  fight  on ! 
And  now  death's  very  midnight  round  them  rolls; 

Rent  is  the  flag  that  late  so  proudly  shone! 
The  red  decks  reel  and  their  last  hope  seems  gone! 

Round  them  they  still  keep  clear  one  ring  of  sea: 
It  narrows;  but  the  lion's  brood  fight  on, 

Ungrappled  still,  still  fearless  and  still  free, 
While  the  white  menacing  shoals  creep  slowly  out  to  lee. 

Now  through  the  red  rents  of  each  fire-cleft  cloud, 

High  o'er  the  British  blood-greased  decks  flash  out 
Thousands  of  swarthy  faces,  crowd  on  crowd 

Surging,  with  one  tremendous  hurricane  shout 
On,  to  the  grapple!  and  still  the  grim  redoubt 

Of  the  oaken  bulwarks  rolls  them  back  again, 
As  buffeted  waves  that  shatter  in  the  furious  bout 

When  cannonading  cliffs  meet  the  full  main 
And  hurl  it  back  in  smoke — so  Britain  hurls  back  Spain; 

Hurls  her  back,  only  to  see  her  return, 

Darkening  the  heavens  with  billow  on  billow  of  sail: 
Round  that  huge  storm  the  waves  like  lava  burn, 

The  daylight  withers,  and  the  sea- winds  fail! 
Seamen  of  England,  what  shall  now  avail 

Your  naked  arms?     Before  those  blasts  of  doom 
The  sun  is  quenched,  the  very  sea- waves  quail: 

High  overhead  their  triumphing  thousands  loom, 
When  hark!  what  low  deep  guns  to  windward  suddenly  boom? 

What  low  deep  strange  new  thunders  far  away 

Respond  to  the  triumphant  shout  of  Spain? 
Is  it  the  wind  that  shakes  their  giant  array? 
Is  it  the  deep  wrath  of  the  rising  main? 
Is  it — El  Draque?     El  Draque!     Ay,  shout  again, 

His  thunders  burst  upon  your  windward  flanks; 


DRAKE  417 

The  shoals  creep  out  to  leeward!     Is  it  plain 

At  last,  what  earthquake  heaves  your  herded  ranks 
Huddled  in  huge  dismay  tow'rds   those  white  foam-swept 
banks? 

Plain,  it  was  plain  at  last,  what  cunning  lured, 
What  courage  held  them  over  the  jaws  o'  the  pit, 
Till  Drake  could  hurl  them  down.     The  little  ships 
Of  Howard  and  Frobisher,  towed  by  their  boats, 
Slipped  away  in  the  smoke,  while  out  at  sea 
Drake,  with  a  gale  of  wind  behind  him,  crashed 
Volley  on  volley  into  the  helpless  rear 
Of  Spain  and  drove  it  down,  huddling  the  whole 
Invincible  Fleet  together  upon  the  verge 
Of  doom.     One  awful  surge  of  stormy  wrath 
Heaved  thro'  the  struggling  citadels  of  Spain. 
From  East  to  West  their  desperate  signal  flew, 
And  like  a  drove  of  bullocks,  with  the  foam 
Flecking  their  giant  sides,  they  staggered  and  swerved, 
Careening  tow'rds  the  shallows  as  they  turned, 
Then  in  one  wild  stampede  of  sheer  dismay 
Rushed,  tacking  seaward,  while  the  grey  sea-plain 
Smoked  round  them,  and  the  cannonades  of  Drake 
Raked  their  wild  flight;  and  the  crusading  flag, 
Tangled  in  one  black  maze  of  crashing  spars, 
Whirled  downward  like  the  pride  of  Lucifer 
From  heaven  to  hell. 

Out  tow'rds  the  coasts  of  France 
They  plunged,  narrowly  weathering  the  Ower  banks; 
Then,  once  again,  they  formed  in  ranks  compact, 
Roundels  impregnable,  wrathfully  bent  at  last 
Never  to  swerve  again  from  their  huge  path 
And  solid  end — to  join  with  Parma's  host, 
And  hurl  the  whole  of  Europe  on  our  isle. 
Another  day  was  gone,  much  powder  spent; 
And,  while  Lord  Howard  exulted  and  conferred 
Knighthoods  on  his  brave  seamen,  Drake  alone 
Knew  that  his  mighty  plan,  in  spite  of  all, 
Had  failed,  knew  that  wellnigh  his  last  great  chance 
Was  lost  of  wrecking  the  Spaniards  ere  they  joined 
Parma.     The  night  went  by,  and  the  next  day, 

27 


418  DRAKE 

With  scarce  a  visible  scar  the  Invincible  Fleet 
Drey/  onwards  tow'rds  its  goal,  unshakeable  now 
In  that  grim  battle-order.     Beacons  flared 
Along  the  British  coast,  and  pikes  flashed  out 
All  night,  and  a  strange  dread  began  to  grip 
The  heart  of  England,  as  it  seemed  the  might 
Of  seamen  most  renowned  in  all  the  world 
Checked  not  that  huge  advance.     Yet  at  the  heart 
Of  Spain  no  less  there  clung  a  vampire  fear 
And  strange  foreboding,  as  the  next  day  passed 
Quietly,  and  behind  her  all  day  long 
The  shadowy  ships  of  Drake  stood  on  her  trail 
Quietly,  patiently,  as  death  or  doom, 
Unswerving  and  implacable. 

While  the  sun 
Sank  thro'  long  crimson  fringes  on  that  eve, 
The  fleets  were  passing  Calais  and  the  wind 
Blew  fair  behind  them.     A  strange  impulse  seized 
Spain  to  shake  off  those  bloodhounds  from  her  trail, 
And  suddenly  the  whole  Invincible  Fleet 
Anchored,  in  hope  the  following  wind  would  bear 
The  ships  of  England  past  and  carry  them  down 
To  leeward.     But  their  grim  insistent  watch 
Was  ready;  and  though  their  van  had  wellnigh  crashed 
Into  the  rear  of  Spain,  in  the  golden  dusk, 
They,  too,  a  cannon-shot  away,  at  once 
Anchored,  to  windward  still. 

Quietly  heaved 
The  golden  sea  in  that  tremendous  hour 
Fraught  with  the  fate  of  Europe  and  mankind, 
As  yet  once  more  the  flag  of  council  flew, 
And  Hawkins,  Howard,  Frobisher,  and  Drake 
Gathered  together  upon  the  little  Revenge, 
While  like  a  triumphing  fire  the  news  was  borne 
To  Spain,  already,  that  the  Invincible  Fleet 
Had  reached  its  end,  ay,  and  "that  great  black  dog 
Sir  Francis  Drake"  was  writhing  now  in  chains 
Beneath  the  torturer's  hands. 

High  on  his  poop 
He  stood,  a  granite  rock,  above  the  throng 
Of  captains,  there  amid  the  breaking  waves 


DRAKE  419 

Of  clashing  thought  and  swift  opinion, 

Silent,  gazing  where  now  the  cool  fresh  wind 

Blew  steadily  up  the  terrible  North  Sea 

Which  rolled  under  the  clouds  into  a  gloom 

Unfathomable.     Once  only  his  lips  moved 

Half-consciously,  breathing  those  mighty  words, 

The  clouds  His  chariot!     Then,  suddenly,  he  turned 

And  looked  upon  the  little  flock  of  ships 

That  followed  on  the  fleet  of  England,  sloops 

Helpless  in  fight.     These,  manned  by  the  brave  zeal 

Of  many  a  noble  house,  from  hour  to  hour 

Had  plunged  out  from  the  coast  to  join  his  flag. 

"Better  if  they  had  brought  us  powder  and  food 

Than  sought  to  join  us  thus,"  he  had  growled;  but  now 

"Lord  God,"  he  cried  aloud,  "they'll  light  our  road 

To  victory  yet!"     And  in  great  sweeping  strokes 

Once  more  he  drew  his  mighty  battle-plan 

Before  the  captains.     In  the  thickening  gloom 

They  stared  at  his  grim  face  as  at  a  man 

Risen  from  hell,  with  all  the  powers  of  hell 

At  his  command,  a  face  tempered  like  steel 

In  the  everlasting  furnaces,  a  rock 

Of  adamant,  while  with  a  voice  that  blent 

With  the  ebb  and  flow  of  the  everlasting  sea 

He  spake,  and  at  the  low  deep  menacing  words 

Monotonous  with  the  unconquerable 

Passion  and  level  strength  of  his  great  soul 

They  shuddered;  for  the  man  seemed  more  than  man, 

And  from  his  iron  lips  resounded  doom 

As  from  the  lips  of  cannon,  doom  to  Spain, 

Inevitable,  unconquerable  doom. 

And  through  that  mighty  host  of  Spain  there  crept 

Cold  winds  of  fear,  as  to  the  darkening  sky 
Once  more  from  lips  of  kneeling  thousands  swept 

The  vespers  of  an  Empire — one  vast  cry, 
Salve  Regina!     God,  what  wild  reply 

Hissed  from  the  clouds  in  that  dark  hour  of  dreams? 
Ave  Maria,  those  about  to  die 

Sahde  thee!     See,  what  ghostly  pageant  streams 
Above  them?     What  thin  hands  point  down  like  pale  moon- 
beams? 


420  DRAKE 

Thick  as  the  ghosts  that  Dante  saw  in  hell 

Whirled  on  the  blast  thro'  boundless  leagues  of  pain, 
Thick,  thick  as  wind-blown  leaves  innumerable, 

In  the  Inquisition's  yellow  robes  her  slain 
And  tortured  thousands,  dense  as  the  red  rain 

That  wellnigh  quenched  her  fires,  went  hissing  by 
With  twisted  shapes,  raw  from  the  racks  of  Spain, 

Salve  Regina! — rushing  thro'  the  sky, 
And  pale  hands  pointing  down  and  lips  that  mocked  her  cry. 

Ten  thousand  times  ten  thousand ! — what  are  these 

That  are  arrayed  in  yellow  robes  and  sweep 
Between  your  prayers  and  God  like  phantom  seas 

Prophesying  over  your  masts?     Could  Rome  not  keep 
The  keys?     Who  loosed  these  dead  to  break  your  sleep? 

Salve  Regina,  cry,  yea,  cry  aloud, 
Ave  Maria!    Ye  have  sown:  shall  ye  not  reap? 

Salve  Regina!     Christ,  what  fiery  cloud 
Suddenly  rolls  to  windward,  high  o'er  mast  and  shroud? 

Are  hell-gates  burst  at  last?     For  the  black  deep 

To  windward  burns  with  streaming  crimson  fires! 
Over  the  wild  strange  waves,  they  shudder  and  creep 

Nearer — strange  smoke-wreathed  masts  and  spars,  red 
spires 
And  blazing  hulks,  vast  roaring  blood-red  pyres, 

Fierce  as  the  flames  ye  fed  with  flesh  of  men 
Amid  the  imperial  pomp  and  chanting  choirs 

Of  Alva — from  El  Draque's  red  hand  again 
Sweep  the  wild  fire-ships  down  upon  the  Fleet  of  Spain. 

Onward  before  the  freshening  wind  they  come 

Full  fraught  with  all  the  terrors,  all  the  bale 
That  flamed  so  long  for  the  delight  of  Rome, 

The  shrieking  fires  that  struck  the  sunlight  pale, 
The  avenging  fires  at  last!     Now  what  avail 

Your  thousand  ranks  of  cannon?     Swift,  cut  free, 
Cut  your  scorched  cables!     Cry,  reel  backward,  quail, 

Crash  your  huge  huddled  ranks  together,  flee! 
Behind  you  roars  the  fire,  before — the  dark  North  Sea! 


DRAKE  421 

Dawn,  everlasting  and  omnipotent 

Dawn  rolled  in  crimson  o'er  the  spar-strewn  waves, 

As  the  last  trumpet  shall  in  thunder  roll 

O'er  heaven  and  earth  and  ocean.     Far  away, 

The  ships  of  Spain,  great  ragged  piles  of  gloom 

And  shaggy  splendour,  leaning  to  the  North 

Like  sun-shot  clouds  confused,  or  rent  apart 

In  scattered  squadrons,  furiously  plunged, 

Burying  their  mighty  prows  i'  the  broad  grey  rush 

Of  smoking  billowy  hills,  or  heaving  high 

Their  giant  bowsprits  to  the  wandering  heavens, 

Labouring  in  vain  to  return,  struggling  to  lock 

Their  far-flung  ranks  anew,  but  drifting  still 

To  leeward,  driven  by  the  ever-increasing  storm 

Straight  for  the  dark  North  Sea.     Hard  by  there  lurched 

One  gorgeous  galleon  on  the  ravening  shoals, 

Feeding  the  white  maw  of  the  famished  waves 

With  gold  and  purple  webs  from  kingly  looms 

And  spilth  of  world-wide  empires.     Howard,  still 

Planning  to  pluck  the  Armada  plume  by  plume, 

Swooped  down  upon  that  prey  and  swiftly  engaged 

Her  desperate  guns;  while  Drake,  our  ocean-king, 

Knowing  the  full  worth  of  that  doom-fraught  hour, 

Glanced  neither  to  the  left  nor  right,  but  stood 

High  on  his  poop,  with  calm  implacable  face 

Gazing  as  into  eternity,  and  steered 

The  crowded  glory  of  his  dawn-flushed  sails 

In  superb  onset,  straight  for  the  great  fleet 

Invincible;  and  after  him  the  main 

Of  England's  fleet,  knowing  its  captain  now, 

Followed,  and  with  them  rushed — from  sky  to  sky 

One  glittering  charge  of  wrath — the  storm's  white  waves, ' 

The  twenty  thousand  foaming  chariots 

Of  God. 

None  but  the  everlasting  voice 
Of  him  who  fought  at  Salamis  might  sing 
The  fight  of  that  dread  Sabbath.     Not  mankind 
Waged  it  alone.     War  raged  in  heaven  that  day, 
Where  Michael  and  his  angels  drave  once  more 
The  hosts  of  darkness  ruining  down  the  abyss 


422  DRAKE 

Of  chaos.    Light  against  darkness,  Liberty 
Against  all  dark  old  despotism,  unsheathed 
The  sword  in  that  great  hour.     Behind  the  strife 
Of  men  embattled  deeps  beyond  all  thought 
Moved  in  their  awful  panoply,  as  move 
Silent,  invisible,  swift,  under  the  clash 
Of  waves  and  flash  of  foam,  huge  ocean-glooms 
And  vast  reserves  of  inappellable  power. 
The  bowsprits  ranked  on  either  fore-front  seemed 
But  spear-heads  of  those  dread  antagonists 
Invisible:  the  shuddering  sails  of  Spain 
Dusk  with  the  shadow  of  death,  the  sunward  sails 
Of  England  full-fraught  with  the  breath  of  God. 
Onward  the  ships  of  England  and  God's  waves 
Triumphantly  charged,  glittering  companions, 
And  poured  their  thunders  on  the  extreme  right 
Of  Spain,  whose  giant  galleons  as  they  lurched 
Heavily  to  the  roughening  sea  and  wind 
With  all  their  grinding,  wrenching  cannon,  worked 
On  rolling  platforms  by  the  helpless  hands 
Of  twenty  thousand  soldiers,  without  skill 
In  stormy  seas,  rent  the  indifferent  sky 
Or  tore  the  black  troughs  of  the  swirling  deep 
In  vain,  while  volley  on  volley  of  flame  and  iron 
Burst  thro'  their  four-foot  beams,  fierce  raking  blasts 
From  ships  that  came  and  went  on  wings  of  the  wind 
All  round  their  mangled  bulk,  scarce  a  pike's  thrust 
Away,  sweeping  their  decks  from  stem  to  stern 
(Between  the  rush  and  roar  of  the  great  green  waves) 
With  crimson  death,  rending  their  timbered  towns 
And  populous  floating  streets  into  wild  squares 
Of  slaughter  and  devastation;  driving  them  down, 
Huddled  on  their  own  centre,  cities  of  shame 
And  havoc,  in  fiery  forests  of  tangled  wrath, 
With  hurricanes  of  huge  masts  and  swarming  spars 
And  multitudinous  decks  that  heaved  and  sank 
Like  earthquake-smitten  palaces,  when  doom 
Comes,  with  one  stride,  across  the  pomp  of  kings. 
All  round  them  shouted  the  everlasting  sea, 
Burst  in  white  thunders  on  the  streaming  poops 


DRAKE  423 

And  blinded  fifty  thousand  eyes  with  spray. 

Once,  as  a  gorgeous  galleon,  drenched  with  blood 

Began  to  founder  and  settle,  a  British  captain 

Called  from  his  bulwarks,  bidding  her  fierce  crew 

Surrender  and  come  aboard.     Straight  through  the  heart 

A  hundred  muskets  answered  that  appeal. 

Sink  or  destroy!     The  deadly  signal  flew 

From  mast  to  mast  of  England.     Once,  twice,  thrice, 

A  huge  sea-castle  heaved  her  haggled  bulk 

Heavenward,  and  with  a  cry  that  rent  the  heavens 

From  all  her  crowded  decks,  and  one  deep  roar 

As  of  a  cloven  world  or  the  dark  surge 

Of  chaos  yawning,  sank :  the  swirling  slopes 

Of  the  sweeping  billowy  hills  for  a  moment  swarmed 

With  struggling  insect-men,  sprinkling  the  foam 

With  tossing  arms;  then  the  indifferent  sea 

Rolled  its  grey  smoking  waves  across  the  place 

Where  they  had  been.     Here  a  great  galleasse  poured 

Red  rivers  through  her  scuppers  and  torn  flanks, 

And  there  a  galleon,  wrapped  in  creeping  fire, 

Suddenly  like  a  vast  volcano  split 

Asunder,  and  o'er  the  vomiting  sulphurous  clouds 

And  spouting  spread  of  crimson,  flying  spars 

And  heads  torn  from  their  trunks  and  scattered  limbs 

Leapt,  hideous  gouts  of  death,  against  the  glare. 

Hardly  the  thrust  of  a  pike  away,  the  ships 

Of  England  flashed  and  swerved,  till  in  one  mass 

Of  thunder-blasted  splendour  and  shuddering  gloom 

Those  gorgeous  floating  citadels  huddled  and  shrank 

Their  towers,  and  all  the  glory  of  dawn  that  rolled 

And  burned  along  the  tempest  of  their  banners 

Withered,  as  on  a  murderer's  face  the  light 

Withers  before  the  accuser.     All  their  proud 

Castles  and  towers  and  heaven-wide  clouds  of  sail 

Shrank  to  a  darkening  horror,  like  the  heart 

Of  Evil,  plucked  from  midnight's  fiercest  gloom, 

With  all  its  curses  quivering  and  alive; 

A  horror  of  wild  masts  and  tangled  spars, 

Like  some  great  kraken  with  a  thousand  arms 

Torn  from  the  filthiest  cavern  of  the  deep, 


424  DRAKE 

Writhing,  and  spewing  forth  its  venomous  fumes 

On  every  side.     Sink  or  destroy! — all  day 

The  deadly  signal  flew;  and  ever  the  sea 

Swelled  higher,  and  the  flashes  of  the  foam 

Broadened  and  leapt  and  spread  as  a  wild  white  fire 

That  flourishes  with  the  wind;  and  ever  the  storm 

Drave  the  grim  battle  onward  to  the  wild 

Menace  of  the  dark  North  Sea.    At  set  of  sun, 

Even  as  below  the  sea-line  the  broad  disc 

Sank  like  a  red-hot  cannon-ball  through  scurf 

Of  seething  molten  lead,  the  Santa  Maria 

Uttering  one  cry  that  split  the  heart  of  heaven 

Went  down  with  all  hands,  roaring  into  the  dark. 

Hardly  five  rounds  of  shot  were  left  to  Drake ! 

Gun  after  gun  fell  silent,  as  the  night 

Deepened — "Yet  we  must  follow  them  to  the  North," 

He  cried,  "or  they'll  return  yet  to  shake  hands 

With  Parma!     Come,  we'll  put  a  brag  upon  it, 

And  hunt  them  onward  as  we  lacked  for  nought!" 

So,  when  across  the  swinging  smoking  seas, 

Grey  and  splendid  and  terrible  broke  the  day 

Once  more,  the  flying  Invincible  fleet  beheld 

Upon  their  weather-beam,  and  dogging  them 

Like  their  own  shadow,  the  dark  ships  of  Drake, 

Unswerving  and  implacable.     Ever  the  wind 

And  sea  increased;  till  now  the  heaving  deep 

Swelled  all  around  them  into  sulky  hills 

And  rolling  mountains,  whose  majestic  crests, 

Like  wild  white  flames  far  blown  and  savagely  flickering 

Swept  thro'  the  clouds;  and,  on  their  vanishing  slopes, 

Past  the  pursuing  fleet  began  to  swirl 

Scores  of  horses  and  mules,  drowning  or  drowned, 

Cast  overboard  to  lighten  the  wild  flight 

Of  Spain,  and  save  her  water-casks,  a  trail 

Telling  of  utmost  fear.     And  ever  the  storm 

Roared  louder  across  the  leagues  of  rioting  sea, 

Driving  her  onward  like  a  mighty  stag 

Chased  by  the  wolves.     Off  the  dark  Firth  of  Forth 

At  last,  Drake  signalled  and  lay  head  to  wind, 

Watching.     "The  chariots  of  God  are  twenty  thousand," 


DRAKE  425 

He  muttered,  as,  for  a  moment  close  at  hand, 

Caught  in  some  league-wide  whirlpool  of  the  sea, 

The  mighty  galleons  crowded  and  towered  and  plunged 

Above  him  on  the  huge  o'erhanging  billows, 

As  if  to  crash  down  on  his  decks;  the  next, 

A  mile  of  ravening  sea  had  swept  between 

Each  of  those  wind-whipt  straws  and  they  were  gone, 

With  all  their  tiny  shrivelling  scrolls  of  sail, 

Through  roaring  deserts  of  embattled  death, 

Where  like  a  hundred  thousand  chariots  charged 

With  lightnings  and  with  thunders,  the  great  deep 

Hurled  them  away  to  the  North.     From  sky  to  sky 

One  blanching  bursting  storm  of  infinite  seas 

Followed  them,  broad  white  cataracts,  hills  that  grasped 

With  struggling  Titan  hands  at  reeling  heavens, 

And  roared  their  doom-fraught  greetings  from  Cape  Wrath 

Round  to  the  Bloody  Foreland. 

There  should  the  yeast 
Of  foam  receive  the  purple  of  many  kings, 
And  the  grim  gulfs  devour  the  blood-bought  gold 
Of  Aztecs  and  of  Incas,  and  the  reefs, 
League  after  league,  bristle  with  mangled  spars, 
And  all  along  their  coasts  the  murderous  kerns 
Of  Catholic  Ireland  strip  the  gorgeous  silks 
And  chains  and  jewel-encrusted  crucifixes 
From  thousands  dead,  and  slaughter  thousands  more 
With  gallow-glass  axes  as  they  blindly  crept 
Forth  from  the  surf  and  jagged  rocks  to  seek 
Pity  of  their  own  creed. 

To  meet  that  doom 
Drake  watched  their  sails  go  shrivelling,  till  the  last 
Flicker  of  spars  vanished  as  a  skeleton  leaf 
Upon  the  blasts  of  winter,  and  there  was  nought 
But  one  wide  wilderness  of  splendour  and  gloom 
Under  the  northern  clouds. 

"Not  unto  us," 
Cried  Drake,  "not  unto  us — but  unto  Him 
Who  made  the  sea,  belongs  our  England  now! 
Pray  God  that  heart  and  mind  and  soul  we  prove 
Worthy  among  the  nations  of  this  hour 


426  DRAKE 

And  this  great  victory,  whose  ocean  fame 
Shall  wash  the  world  with  thunder  till  that  day 
When  there  is  no  more  sea,  and  the  strong  cliffs 
Pass  like  a  smoke,  and  the  last  peal  of  it 
Sounds  thro'  the  trumpet." 

So,  with  close-hauled  sails., 
Over  the  rolling  triumph  of  the  deep, 
Lifting  their  hearts  to  heaven,  they  turned  back  horns. 


End  of  Volume  One. 


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